


Ante Post

by goldearring (leoandsnake)



Series: journos [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Bisexual Louis, Bonding through sports, Brexit, Falling In Love, Flirting, Football, Friends to Lovers, Harry and Louis navigate being awkward exes, Idiots in Love, Journalism, Lilo being two perfect halves of each other, Louis and Liam are overcompetitive idiots, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Plotty, Power Bottom Louis, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Television News, UK Politics, Work Drama, Work Husbands, Workplace Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 07:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 105,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10657461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoandsnake/pseuds/goldearring
Summary: Liam is a sports reporter and fledgling news presenter who’s catapulted into the big leagues by virtue of his popularity with focus groups. Louis is the maverick executive producer who isn't quite sure what to make of him, at first.They meet in the middle, amidst the chaos of Brexit.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at andavamo.tumblr.com

_“You knew just when to feed me the next line, you knew the second before I needed it. There was a rhythm we got into... It was like great sex.”_

\-- Broadcast News (1987)

 

All his childhood, Louis dreamed of being a news presenter.

He would sit in front of the television in the nineties and gaze up at those men with their stern, square jaws and nondescript suits as they read the news to him in fluid and flawless RP accents. They were grave and sincere; they held a position in the public eye that he found deeply appealing. Everyone loved celebrities, but they trusted newscasters, they looked up to them. They let them into their living rooms every night.

Louis got older. He did the video announcements in secondary, although he mostly took it as an opportunity to goof off with his mates and make girls laugh. He was always funny, only sometimes informative.

He went on to study journalism in uni, though, and got a whole lot more serious about it right away, once he realized he was actually quite good at it.

The further along he got, however, the more he found himself moving behind the camera.

No one ever said to him that he wouldn’t succeed as a newscaster. It’s entirely possible he could have; it may have been a bit of an uphill battle, but he could have done it. He's charismatic and attractive, and excelled at drama in school. He expects, though, that his pride would have taken a lot of blows in trying.

Louis knows his voice isn’t quite right: it isn’t deep enough, and his accent’s a bit too strong. He’s too short, too slender in the wrong way, a feminine way. He hasn’t got the strong brow or the broad shoulders. His face is too cute: his jaw isn’t square and his nose isn’t aquiline.

The other problem is how he takes to production like he's born to it. The first time he directs a live newscast in university, his mate Niall lingers around to watch, even though he hasn't got any on-set duties that week.

“D’you know -- you know how _calm_ you were?” Niall says after in awe, as they walk to his car. “Goin’ live? We were live! People _saw_ that!”

Louis laughs and brushes this off. He isn’t great at taking compliments.

“Lad,” Niall says, gazing at him. “You were Tony Montana. You were the Iceman.”

His professors all seem to think so, too. His last year of schooling, when most of his courses focus on production, is far and away his best. 

 _Great command of the room, very detail-oriented, great at defusing tension with humor_ , says one in his final marks. _Nerves of steel. Expect to see you producing for BBC in 10 years,_ says another.

Louis does not produce for BBC in ten years.

He’s an executive producer at ITV in five.


	2. Chapter 2

_February 3, 2016_

 

“He's ready for you now, Louis,” says Sadie.

He thanks her and stands, smoothing out his jumper as he does. He hitches up his sleeves as he walks from the modernist anteroom to Simon’s door.

SIMON COWELL - PRESIDENT/GENERAL MANAGER OF ITV NEWS, reads an overly large plaque on the door. Louis raises his hand to the knob, and the door swings open in his face before he can lay fingers on it.

“Louis, come in, come here.” Simon says, striding back to his desk without waiting for him.

His office is unsettling, optically; dark wood walls surround you on three sides as you face a floor to ceiling window overlooking the Thames on the fourth side. Louis has always felt it’s like having a meeting in a shoe cubby, albeit one with a nice view. Simon’s desk sits in the center. It's made from a wood as dark as the walls, and far enough from the chairs placed in front of it that you’ve usually got to lean forward to hear him.

This time, however, Simon beckons him over to behind the desk, where he pulls out another chair for Louis.

“I’d like your opinion on something,” Simon says, indicating his laptop screen.

Louis looks. He sees a headshot of a man about Louis’ age, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a sweet smile. He looks like a news presenter straight out of central casting.

“Yeah?” Louis says, putting a hand on Simon’s shoulder and cracking a smile at him. “New boyfriend for you? Bit older than you usually like.”

“Don’t get cheeky,” Simon admonishes, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms. “No, for weekend newscaster, to replace Jonathan.”

Louis looks at Handsome Man again.

“Alright, you know I need more than a face,” he says. “What’s his resume?”

“Was a reporter, did sports in the Midlands for Channel Four for four years,” Simon says.

“ _Sports?_ Four years? How old is ‘e?”

“Twenty-six.”

Louis turns his head and stares at Simon. Simon flashes him a smile.

“You want to put a twenty-six year old behind the desk?”

“The _weekend_ desk!” Simon scoffs. “He's talented, got a nice voice and a good manner to him. He tests very well with groups we need more eyeballs from. I've wanted to poach a young one from Four for ages, now. And look at that face.”

“I’m looking,” Louis murmurs, as his eyes flick to the screen. “What’s his name?”

“Liam Payne.”

Louis observes how Liam Payne’s eyes crinkle with genuine mirth in the photo -- unusual for a headshot. Maybe someone made him laugh right before it was taken. He has full lips, and neatly trimmed facial hair.

“Why not Harry?” Louis says. He takes a seat, finally. “Why not -- ‘e’s been reporting for us for so long, when’ll you get him behind a desk?”

Simon sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “We’ve discussed this…”

“Not to my satisfaction,” Louis argues, leaning forward, digging in for a fight.

“Louis…”

“Give me a proper reason, and I’ll leave you be.”

“He’s not the type --”

“What, and Mr Good Morning Britain here is? Seriously, are you sure you didn’t mean to hire him for This Morning? No offense to them.”

“Oh, come on,” Simon says. “He’s a very nice young man. You’d like him, I promise. He’s friends with your boy Malik, even.”

Louis recoils. “Not a selling point.”

“Oh, you’re still sore? You’re being silly.”

“I’m being silly? One of the best reporters here, the second his contract is up he drops out of negotiations an’ leaves us for the BBC without a word -- and just straight up doesn't come in the day of the Paris attacks, and ‘e doesn’t even have the decency to ring us and apologize for leaving us twisting in the wind? Oh, and dumps his girlfriend with a text on his way out,” Louis says, ticking all of this off on his fingers. "Good bloke."

“Thanks, you’ve yet again made me regret even mentioning him,” Simon says drily, “but maybe it’s best I told you, since I assume Liam will bring him up at some point.”

Louis is annoyed for many reasons. His job is meant to be all about exerting control. He doesn't like having it wrested away from him. 

“So you didn’t want my opinion, really,” he says lightly. “You’ve just called me in to show me a headshot and tell me the bloke’s name.”

“You know, once he’s learned the ropes, you won’t be seeing all that much of him,” Simon says, glancing back to look Louis in the eyes. Louis attempts to adopt a very neutral expression. “Least as long as he stays doing the weekend.”

“And he's doing packages for the weekend as well?”

“Yes, we’ll put him on some fluff stories to start with. Kittens in trees, mums up in arms about gluten, that sort of thing. Transition him slowly into heavier news.”

Louis feels very strongly that he must say this next thing, because if he doesn’t, no one else will.

“Harry could be good behind the desk,” he says. “If you gave him more opportunities… For instance, starting him on the weekend desk, if you've got an opening -- instead of filling it with some random from Four.”

“Harry is good in the _field!_ ” Simon exclaims, gesticulating. “He’s -- you know, people like him, they trust him, he _cries_ with them and he makes them laugh and yes, that’s all very good. He’s excellent at interviews and investigations, I fully agree. But we’ve discussed this, Louis, I am not putting your sex kitten ex behind the desk. He has a certain energy, it sends the wrong message."

Nothing Simon says is inherently untrue, but it wounds Louis anyway. Harry is one of the hardest-working, dedicated reporters he’s ever met, and more than that, he’s trustworthy. He’s tall, and he’s got the broad shoulders and the square jaw, and his voice is deep. It infuriates Louis that even when you are on the whole of it right for the job, little variables can conspire to stand in your way.

He knows it’s because of the _way_ in which Harry is sexy -- a way that smacks of homosexuality. You can be a gay newscaster, now, you’ve just got to butch it up and adopt an air of dry celibacy. Harry sprawls his legs everywhere and grins for too long at men, is tactile with them and laughs too loudly at their jokes. His voice is sibilant and drips with invitation. His shirts are always open one button too many. Bit by bit, he’s doomed himself.

Even Louis, who has historically mostly dated women, has had his wrist slapped plenty by self-appointed poofter police. In uni, when he was ripped from his producer position and forced to act as a reporter for a week in order to satisfy the syllabus, he walked around with his shoulders hunched, tense like a cat, just waiting. It came the second he had managed to let his guard down enough to film a stand-up. _Don’t move your hand like that, Tommo. Make your voice a little lower, mate. Lower. Lower..._

Louis would bet good money that Liam Payne has never had this problem.

“Alright,” he says, in resignation.

“There’s a boy,” Simon says, slapping him on the back. “Now, I’ve told him he can come to you with any questions. He’s got some reservations about moving from sports to --”

“Tough shit like mums in trees and kittens with gluten allergies?”

“Don’t be snide. Help him, if he asks.”

Louis looks again at the photo, and at the crinkly-eyed smile.

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh.

 

/

 

“He doesn’t seem all that bad,” Perrie says, catching the foam soccer ball Niall tosses her and pivoting to toss to Louis.

Louis makes a noncommittal expression. He rubs his forehead. “Close that door,” he instructs Niall.

Niall rolls across the conference room in a wheeled chair and pushes the door shut, cocking an eyebrow at Louis.

“He’s friends with Zayn,” Louis says to Perrie. “Full disclosure.”

Niall sucks in a disappointed breath. An expression of wounded surprise crosses Perrie’s face, and then is gone in an instant.

“That's fine,” she says. “It’s a small business, innit?”

“I actually know him,” Niall says. “Liam. Not well, but we’ve crossed paths a few times. ‘Cos when I started here, I did sports a lot in t’ summer. One time he helped me out, I was trying for this behind-the-keeper shot and got me sticks tangled in t’ net.”

“What’s he like?” Louis says, sipping his afternoon tea. Perrie takes this opportunity to fling the ball at him; it bounces off his chest, and he wings it right back at her. She dodges and cackles.

“Sweet,” Niall says, nodding and bouncing his leg. “Helpful. Good bloke.”

“Great,” Louis sighs. “I’m tryin’ to not like him off the bat, here, lads.”

“That would be unprofessional,” Perrie says, mock-stern. She picks the ball up and more gently passes it off to Louis. “Wait ‘til he slips up, and then you can not like him with cause.”

“Wait, why d’we not like him?” Niall says. “Refresh me.”

Louis tosses him the ball.

“I want Harry to be able to move up, here,” he says. “That's all. I want him to have room to advance, ‘cos if he doesn't, he'll leave for the BBC too, trust me. And Harry would have been perfect to try out on weekends, but they hired this bloke instead of promoting from within. Which is just, like, bad business.”

“Harry’s so good in the field,” Perrie says, tossing the ball back to him, “why d’you want him to come in?”

“‘Cos a career out there --” he gestures “-- it don't last forever, and he'll burn out. Not tomorrow, but it'll happen.”

“Ho ho,” Niall says. He's glancing over his shoulder at Louis’ phone on the table. The screen has lit up.

“Text?” Louis says, tossing and catching the ball without looking at it.

“It's lima bean,” Niall says, smiling. “He introduced himself, asked if you wanna get dinner and talk. His treat.”

“Ooer,” says Perrie with a sly grin. “ _Dinner_. His treat.”

“Simon wants me to like, tutor him,” Louis mutters. “Help prepare him for doing somethin’ that isn't sports. Which, like, that's another reason he ain't right for the job.”

“You know how Harry behind the desk tests in focus groups, though,” Perrie says, with sympathy in her voice. “You know he does great with the kiddos and scares the old nans with his sex appeal. They love him in interviews, ‘cos they can tell how nice he is, but they don't like him just reading the news.”

“I know,” Louis says, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “I know.”

 

/

 

Louis meets Liam at a nice sit-down restaurant only a few roads over from the studio; a bit posh, but Louis isn’t paying. It's got a name he can never remember: it sounds hunting related, The Horse and the Hound, or something. In the Uber over, Louis watches Liam’s reel on YouTube.

To his own disappointment, he sees the appeal. Liam is handsomer in motion, with a nice laugh, a great voice and an endearing quality to his banter. He seems confident and poised, at least when discussing sports. His one flaw seems to be this slightly airheaded quality he's got, which Louis tends to be charmed by.

He walks into the restaurant and spots Liam immediately. He got there early, but Liam arrived earlier.

Louis stares at him from across the room as he hovers in front of the hostess stand. Something drastic has transpired in his body; some intense chemical reaction has taken place. He gazes at Liam’s boyish face and pistons churn in his gut. The muscles in his thighs tense. His mouth dries out, and his pulse thuds.

“Sir?” says the hostess.

“I'm meetin’ somebody,” Louis says quickly. “But I see him.”

He leaves her before she has a chance to respond and begins his walk to Liam, feeling numb in the legs. It seems to him as if he glides to the table.

When he's a few steps away, Liam looks up and smiles. He’s gently haloed by a soft light behind him. Louis is dizzied by the flash of his teeth.

“Louis Tomlinson?” Liam asks him. His regular speaking voice has a different quality; less bassy, more hesitant.

“Only if Liam Payne's asking,” Louis replies smoothly.

Liam laughs. Louis finds himself wanting to make that happen again.

“Good to meet you, mate.”

“Hey, you too.”

Liam’s handshake is firm but gentle. Louis likes the feel of his hands.

“You're different than I expected,” Liam says cheerily, as Louis takes a seat. “In a good way, I mean.”

“What'd you expect?” Louis murmurs, as he settles his napkin over his lap.

Liam shrugs and glances away. “Someone older? Um, not as -- you know -- you’ve got the look of a reporter, I mean. Not a producer.”

Louis flushes, which he hasn't done in about five years. Luckily, his complexion doesn't show it.

He looks up at Liam: sweet, young Liam, who seems as if he would happily give away trade secrets to the first person on the street who compliments him on his haircut. Louis wonders again what attracted the cutthroat, practical Simon to him. Besides the testimony of a focus group.

“Is that a good thing?” he says, casually flirty as he always is, and then kicks himself for it. Liam oozes bland heterosexuality. He's probably got a fiancée at home named Ginger and joint ownership of a Cocker spaniel.

“Definitely,” Liam says, smiling.

Discomfort rises in Louis like high tide. He doesn’t want to like this bloke, or vice versa. He feels himself starting to prickle protectively. The walls are coming up.

Their waiter comes by. Liam gets a beer, and Louis gets a double jack and coke, because he might as well.

“I'm sort of surprised by you as well,” Louis says, as they peruse the menu.

“Hmm?”

“You're young,” Louis says pointedly, “and, no offense, inexperienced.”

A certain look creases Liam's face. He sets his menu down.

“No, I know,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you for that exact reason.”

“Go on,” Louis says.

“I know you're quite good, and I know you really know your shit… I don't know current events very well,” Liam confesses. “I'm not up on politics and the like. I'm really sort of scared I'm in over my head here, but -- I couldn't say no to this job, you know?”

Louis exhales through his nose. He tries not to think of Harry, who is one of the most well-read and hard-working reporters he knows, but who seemingly will never get the plum job Liam has so easily won -- unless he flees from Simon entirely.

“You couldn't?” Louis says, arching an eyebrow at him.

Liam places his hands on the table, palms-up, like he's offering himself to Louis. “You know what I mean, don't you?” he says plaintively.

The waiter brings their drinks, interrupting a moment that was growing awkward in the wake of Louis’ lack of response.

Louis takes a long sip of his drink. Liam looks at him with a woebegone expression, waiting. The sounds of other tables dining, their quiet murmurs and clinks of silverware against their plates, seems to grow louder the longer they remain silent.

“I think,” Louis says carefully, “you're going to find it an uphill battle.”

Liam nods. “I reckoned, yeah.”

“I'm not goin’ to make things easy on you,” Louis says. “If you want me to show you the ropes, I'm not -- I'm nice, but I'm gonna haze you. It's just how it is. You've got to be able to handle it and think on your feet.”

“I'll do whatever."

“What sort of things did you do as a sportscaster?” Louis says, as their salads arrive. He digs into his.

“I sat the desk,” Liam says, sounding unsure of himself. “I started as a reporter, did locker room interviews, and the like, and then I got promoted ‘cos…”

He trails off, embarrassed.

“Go on,” Louis says, tilting his drink toward Liam and smiling. He's beginning to feel tipsy.

“I tested well with men and women,” Liam says. He bites his lip. “They didn't have good numbers for women tuning in for sports, before, but, um, they tuned in to watch me.”

“Aye, I'll bet,” Louis says.

Liam appears flustered. “Well, so anyway, that's how I got promoted to, like, be the face, read off scores and give analysis…”

“And why did Simon take you on here in London, to report and sit the desk?” Louis says, leaning toward him. “If you're not strong on current events, or investigation, or anythin’? ‘Cos, I hope this don't come as a shock, but those skills are sort of integral to actual news.”

“I dunno,” Liam says. He sounds a bit desperate, and Louis has a flash of guilt for pushing him. “I really, sincerely don't know. I test well across all groups. That's all I know, mate.”

Louis nods, studying Liam. He crosses his legs under the table. The alcohol is settling into him, warming him.

“You're intense,” Liam mutters. “You're… no offense, you're sort of a lot at once.”

“Producers are intense,” Louis informs him.

“Right, but you're…”

Liam's dark eyes bore into him, and Louis feels as if he's floating.

“Cheeky, too,” Liam says. He gestures in a helpless way. “You know?”

“That I am,” Louis says.

“I don't -- I don't always take cheekiness well,” Liam admits.

“You’ll get used to me,” Louis says, sounding more sinister than he means to.

 

/

 

“He hates me,” Liam calls as he puts in his mouthguard.

“He does _not_ hate you,” Sophia says in exasperation as she returns from the bathroom, clad in a silky black nightie and rubbing lotion onto her arms. They moved into this flat only yesterday, and the bedroom is still mostly bare, with one box labeled “nighttime things” having been ripped open by them just an hour ago.

“No, you didn’t hear him, you weren’t there,” Liam says, and then pulls a pillow over his face and groans into it. “He totally thinks I’m this daft himbo, and you know what? He’s right about that. He was talking circles around me the whole dinner, I don't even remember paying or leaving.”

“Oh, baby,” Sophia says, kneeling onto the bed and taking his face in her hands, stroking his cheek. “The news isn't that hard, is it?”

“If it's not that hard, then why am I so dumb about it?” Liam cries, and he wraps his hands around her wrists. “Why can't I figure out politics?”

“Politics are confusing and boring,” she says dismissively. “You don't have to understand them, you just have to read them off a prompter.”

“Noo, Soph, you don't get it,” Liam says, feeling his gut clench with anxiety. “I've got to report, too, for the weekends, I've got to put together packages, I'm not just a newscaster, I'm not seasoned enough to be able to get away with just sitting behind a desk! Simon specifically said he wanted packages from me when he hired me!”

“Why did you agree to that?” she exclaims.

“It was too good a job to pass up.”

“Get this Louis bloke to help you, then,” Sophia says. She's clearly bored of this conversation, and of Liam's anxiety. She settles next to him, tossing her hair back over the pillows.

Liam doesn't lie down. He isn't tired at all. His mind is racing. “That's what I'm saying,” he says. “What if he doesn't like me? I'm not even sure if I like him! I'm too afraid of him to tell!”

“Just be your sweet self,” Sophia says, a bit dismissively. “You'll grow on him. You grew on me, didn't you?”

She rolls over, as if to forcibly conclude their exchange. Liam stares at the S-shaped curve of her. He's felt more and more of a chill from her lately; the more he tries to tighten his hold on her, the more distant she grows.

“Right,” Liam mutters. He claps the lights off.


	3. Chapter 3

“Bring up that second fresnel a bit higher,” Louis calls from where he’s seated at the back end of the studio, watching the monitors.

Oli -- his favorite PA -- obliges, lighting the center of Liam’s face a bit more intensely. Liam blinks, but otherwise doesn’t show his discomfort. Louis likes that about him already: how steady he is.

He hears soft footsteps, and turns to see Harry drop down beside him on the couch.

“What have we got here?” Harry drawls, kicking his legs out in front of him.

“Lighting tests,” Niall supplies, from where he’s leaning on the wall behind them.

“Neil, shouldn’t you be cutting the eleven together?” Louis says absent-mindedly, as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, to squint at the monitor in front of him.

Liam looks great under the studio lights. They sculpt his boyish face and make him look older, more masculine. He knows exactly how to sit to project power and approachability all at once. The raised fresnel hits him directly in the middle of his face, making his dark eyes glow with warmth.

Louis, standing in the shadows, breathes out slowly.

“Nah, I’m done. Just waiting for Nick to approve me topicals,” Niall says. He cocks his head. “You good?”

Louis breaks his gaze from the screen and turns, lifting an eyebrow. “Concentrating.”

Niall and Harry exchange a look.

“Payne,” Louis shouts across the studio.

Liam’s head jerks to him.

“Read off the prompter a bit,” Louis calls, and then opens the corresponding software on his laptop and begins tapping away.

“ITV London News at six o’clock. This is Liam Payne, good evening,” Liam reads, punching his words with a metronomic frequency that makes him sound more like a well-done satire of a presenter than an actual presenter. He doesn't sound like he does on his reel; he must be nervous. “We’ve got breaking news for you -- PM David Cameron has been found dead. He appears to have been suffering from a venereal disease that has previously only been seen in pigs. We bring you live to --”

Liam cuts off, flustered. Louis falls out laughing, collapsing into Harry’s shoulder and then popping back up.

“Bravo!” he exclaims. “Sounds good.”

Liam glances over at him. Louis sits up and makes his way over to the desk. He busies himself fixing Liam’s earpiece, which has come slightly out of his ear, so he doesn’t have to look into his eyes.

“Professional,” Liam says drily.

Louis laughs. “Come on. We work long hours, got to get a laugh in where we can.”

“As long as the laugh isn’t on _me_ ,” Liam says, sounding genuinely concerned that it could be.

Louis quits fumbling with his earpiece and squats down against the desk, resting his chin on his arm and looking up at Liam.

“You aren't like most newscasters I've met,” he says softly. 

“What’re we like, in your experience?” Liam says, watching him.

Across the room, the camera operators and PAs grow bored and mill around, playing with their phones. Harry and Niall are in quiet conversation, themselves.

Louis breaks Liam’s gaze and looks at his mouth, which is a rotten idea; he’s got rosy full lips that look very kissable.

“Arrogant,” he says. “Sort of just… pricks, sometimes. Big heads.”

“I can be a prick sometimes."

Louis snorts. "I don't believe you."

“Maybe not a prick,” Liam amends. “Insensitive, maybe.”

“You seem sensitive to me,” Louis says.

Liam looks up at him with a slight squint, like he’s puzzling something out.

"Not a bad thing," he adds. 

"I didn't take it as one."

“Be a little less calculated, by the way,” Louis says, feeling he’s got to criticize Liam to cover for himself. “Don’t be so -- you don’t seem entirely comfortable with your role, here. I’ve looked at your reel, you’re very comfortable with football and rugby lingo, but you said David Cameron’s name the way some presenters say Netanyahu.”

“How do I fix that?”

“Practice,” Louis tells him. “I’ll practice with you.”

“Why are you helping me so much?”

Louis stands.

“‘Cos Simon asked me to.”

“Right, but you don't have to do this much --”

“I had no input on your hirin’,” Louis says coolly. “And there are a lot of people who are fit to sit behind that desk, in my opinion. If you’re going to be there, I want to know you’re worthy of it, one way or another, even if I’ve got to get you there from scratch. Just on the principle of the thing.”

Liam’s face changes, immediately closing off. He looks hurt.

“Fine.”

Louis swallows a pang of regret. He pats the desk and walks away. “You can go,” he calls over his shoulder.

He settles back down on the couch next to Harry. The three of them watch as Liam gathers up his things and makes his way across the studio, unbuttoning his suit jacket and running a hand through his hair.

“Nice,” Harry comments when he’s gone. “I’m a fan. Very, hmm, _daddy,_ you know?”

Louis looks at him, stricken.

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, patting him on the cheek with a grin. He gets to his feet. “You know I like them older. He’s all yours.”

“I don’t -- stop it!”

Harry breezes out of the studio, and Niall takes his seat on the couch.

“I really don’t want to do the eleven,” he mutters.

Louis nudges him. “Poor baby.”

“I liked workin’ on’ your show,” Niall says. “I hate when I switch to editing in the winter, I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” He pats Niall’s knee. “Tell you what, I’ll just produce all day long, and then we can do the eleven together.”

Niall snorts. “Suits me…”

He looks sidelong at Louis in a certain way, which Louis resolutely ignores.

“Listen,” Niall says, poking him in the thigh. “I wanted to ask --”

“Oli,” Louis calls across the floor. “You want to get drinks? When you and Niall get off?”

“I’m down!” Oli calls back, giving a thumbs-up as he wraps up a cord.

“Hey, artful dodger,” Niall says.

Louis settles back against the couch, running his hands through his hair. “Go on then.”

Niall bites his lip and gives Louis a once over. “You good, since the break-up?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, immediately.

“Not feelin’ a bit lonely…” Niall prods.

“Not lonely, no,” Louis says briskly, getting to his feet. Niall follows suit, to his chagrin.

“Not missin’ Eleanor?”

Louis walks out of the studio and into the newsroom. Niall dogs his steps.

“Nah,” Louis says. “I broke up with her, this time.”

Niall shrugs. “Don't mean you can't miss her.”

“I'm alright,” Louis assures him. They stop at his desk, and Ed takes his headphones off and looks to Louis.

“Hey,” Louis says to him. “Want to get drinks with us?”

Ed shakes his head. “I've just come in. I'm morningside for a few days while Andy’s out for surgery.”

Louis and Niall groan in sympathy. Ed shrugs amiably and slips his headphones back on.

“You're focusin’ a lot on work lately, is all,” Niall murmurs. “I'm just saying like -- if you were lonely, and focusin’ a lot on work, maybe you'd be in danger of… shittin’ where you eat.”

“What are we talking about?”

“Lima bean.”

“Oh, Christ. Look,” Louis says with an eyeroll. “That kid is as straight as can be. And I've been gettin’ out plenty. I'm in no danger, here.”

Niall claps his hands on his shoulders. “You're always in danger, Tommo,” he says, dropping to his seat at his workstation next to Louis. “You're a romantic. Me, I'm a pragmatist. Not in any danger.”

Louis makes prolonged eye contact with Niall. He indicates the preoccupied Ed with a tilt of his head, then meteorologist Ellie where she's applying makeup across the room. “Aye, such a pragmatist, never does anythin’ stupid…” he whispers. “Never shits where he eats...”

“Zip it,” Niall hisses, with a face of absolute alarm. “I've got to edit the eleven!”

“Oh, _now_ he wants to do the eleven?”

“Villain. Evil monkey.”

“That's me,” Louis says cheerily, whapping Niall on the back of the head with a folder and heading to Harry across the newsroom.

Harry is watching a package of his Perrie shot that will air tomorrow; he's got his hand pressed to his chin and he looks deep in thought. Louis waits patiently for him to get through it, but after a moment Harry pauses it, slips the headphones off his ears and turns to him.

“I just wanted to say,” Louis says, “that I think it ought to have been you at the weekend desk.”

Harry smiles at Louis, then reaches out and squeezes his bicep. “Don't dwell on it,” he instructs.

“No, I’m dead serious, Haz, I mean -- it's unfair, isn't it? He didn't even promote from inside. He went and plucked this bloke out of Four. It's a fairly big _fuck you_.”

“Louis,” Harry says softly. “You don't have to go to bat for me, I'm alright.”

“I'm not,” Louis protests. “I'm being your friend. It's shit.”

He knows this is somewhat selfish of him; part of his feeling is anger that Simon thwarted his wishes, passed over his pick, passed over the man he himself has been grooming for the desk since he and Harry met four years ago. He feels that Simon has deemed his judgment is off, and Louis prides his judgment above all things.

“Liam’s going to do well,” Harry says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “You saw it, I saw it. He's got that... _thing_. That wholesome, choosy mums choose Liams, thing. Focus on him, don't worry about me.”

“Focus on him? It's not as if -- I like, hardly ever produce for weekends, anymore.”

Harry glances up at him with raised eyebrows. “Are you joking?” he says. “You can't see how Simon’s grooming him for the weekday at six? Grooming him for _you_?”

Louis grips the back of Harry’s chair. “What d’you mean?”

“Having him work with you,” Harry says slowly. “Getting you to teach him the ropes... Getting on him from day one, picking someone who's only ever done sportscasting, so he's free of bad habits. You know how Simon likes to get us when we’re young and fresh. And Walsh is leaving the desk within the next two years, I guarantee it... He's going to either retire or go be a contributor for the BBC or something, with Simon’s blessing, because Simon will have this fresh young face to replace him.”

“Christ,” Louis whispers. “I feel like a wanker. Fuck!”

“Louis, it's not a big deal. This is how it works. We all know that.”

“And you'll just keep bein’ passed over, and passed over…”

“I could always leave,” Harry says amiably. “Do a Zayner.”

He grins. Louis socks him in the shoulder.

“Don’t even joke,” he tells him.

“Like I’d leave you and Niall?” Harry says, poking him in the ribs. Louis slaps his hand away. “Can I watch the rest of this?”

“Aye, go ahead. We're getting drinks as soon as Niall’s off,” Louis says as he takes his leave.

“Copy that,” Harry calls over his shoulder, slipping his headphones back on.

 

/

 

Liam didn’t feel like going home after his lighting tests, so Sophia suggested they try a pub near the station. She’s late meeting him, and she's already in a mood when she gets there. He sidles up to the bar to get them drinks while she gets them a table.

He drums his fingers on the dark wood as he waits to be noticed, lost in his own thoughts. His anxiety about work is beginning to swallow him.

The news director, Paul, took him aside before he left and assigned him to a Saturday story about the London Zoo’s new giraffe, which means he’s got to ring them up tomorrow morning and ask if he can come down and shoot interviews on less than an hour’s notice. He's already clammy over it. It may be a puff piece, but he hasn’t done a non-sports interview since uni.

Someone clears their throat next to him.

“Hi Liam Payne,” says a soft, slightly raspy voice that’s immediately familiar.

Liam turns and sees Louis, who’s smiling cheekily at him. He’s got two empty glasses in his hands, and he sets them at the bar and beckons the bartender over with the sort of confident gesture that Liam couldn’t quite muster.

“Jimmy, I want a bourbon sour,” Louis says. “How much is that?”

“Six-fifty.”

“ _How_ much?” Louis exclaims. “Jesus Christ... Alright, give us one of those, please. And bring him --” he indicates Liam “-- a Guinness on me.”

The bartender nods.

“Thanks,” Liam says, glancing at him. “You come here a lot?”

Louis nods. He turns, his back against the bar and his elbows propped on the edge. “It’s one of our after-work spots.”

Liam’s beer is handed to him. He takes a long sip and then looks at Louis, who has cupped his hands to light a cigarette. The smell of it makes Liam want to smoke, though he usually tries not to, to spare his voice.

He notices again that Louis is an attractive bloke. He’s got a sort of boyish but graceful energy to him. His cheekbones are high, his face finely crafted -- Liam notices this more as he watches him take a drag. His fringe falls across his forehead in an appealing way.

“You here with anyone?” Louis murmurs, looking up at him. Liam feels caught out and glances down at his beer.

“My girlfriend,” Liam supplies.

Louis’ face changes subtly, and his eyes darken. Liam finds himself wanting to reassure him, though of what, he isn’t sure.

“Ginger,” Louis mutters to himself.

“What?” Liam says, confused. “No, she’s brunette.”

“Oh, no,” Louis says with a reedy laugh. “No, I -- never mind. Got a Cocker spaniel, by any chance?”

Now Liam can smell a joke he isn’t in on. “No,” he says shortly.

Louis blows out a lungful of smoke. “Look,” he says gently. “I meant what I said before. I want to help you.”

“Do you want to help me ‘cos you think I’m good, or ‘cos of your own agenda?” Liam says. He isn’t sure why he feels so hurt by even the slightest intimation of rejection from Louis. If he had to hazard a guess, he thinks it’s because Louis reminds him of blokes who used to bully him; smart-mouthed, slick, always tripping Liam up in his own embarrassment.

It only occurs to Liam in the dimmest recesses of his mind that he himself resembles the type of bloke who likely gave Louis a hard time. He’s big and strong and square-jawed, now. His body has grown up around the soft feelings that remain unchanged inside of him.

“Hey,” Louis murmurs. Liam likes the sound of his voice when it’s quiet. “‘Cos of the way you were hired, I have every reason to be wary of you. But I like something about you anyway. Alright? I don’t want to leave you flappin’ in the wind. I won’t. That ain't who I am. So you’ve just got to trust me, here.”

Liam shifts against the bar. He takes another sip of his beer. “Alright,” he says hesitantly.

“Let’s meet after your show tomorrow,” Louis says to him. He reaches out and grips his arm in a drunken way, using it as leverage to move himself off of the bar. Liam feels warm under his touch. He doesn’t want Louis to let go.

Louis does, anyway.

“I’ll start training you,” he says. “Current events, politicians, how to handle a tough interview...”

“Am I going to _need_ all that?” Liam says, observing him.

Louis’ blue eyes twinkle. “You’ve got no idea, do you?” he says. “What Simon’s got planned for you...”

“What?” Liam says. His heart begins to race. “What are you talking about?”

“Tomorrow,” Louis says, drinking half of his bourbon sour in one go. “Two fifteen, mate. Wait in the studio when you've wrapped. Don't take your suit off or your earpiece out or nothin’. I'll come to you.”

Liam watches him walk away with dread beginning to burn in his gut. He flags the bartender down, and orders Sophia a glass of wine.

 

/

 

“So he's got a bird?” Perrie says, slinging an arm around Louis’ shoulder and looking across the dark pub. “Quite a looker, she is.” She whistles.

Louis’ gut churns with sullen annoyance. “Very fit,” he says, sipping his drink. It's his fourth of the night.

“I like him,” Niall says decisively. “Like how much he knows about sports. We were talkin’ for like an hour over lunch today.”

“‘Scuse me, I know sports,” Louis grumbles, though his heart isn't in it. Oli chuckles.

Harry leans over to Louis. “I know you've had too much to drink,” he says in his ear, “‘cos you've gotten cranky. Maybe we ought to ring Zayn up for a prank call.”

“Not quite to that point, yet,” Louis says.

Perrie, who overheard this, snorts and takes a drink. Zayn dumped her the night before he left for the BBC, moving out of their shared flat and moving in with his friend Shahid, an arsehole sound engineer at the Beeb who never liked Louis.

Zayn told Perrie that he ought to be dating someone who was looking to move upward, though they all suspect he really meant that he wanted to be free to date a new class of bird now that he himself had moved up professionally.

“They don't look too happy,” Perrie whispers in Louis’ ear.

He follows her gaze. Sophia seems bored, picking at her food, tapping away at her phone. Liam is doing the same.

“I've got no idea,” Louis mutters. “Couldn't say either way.”

“Oh, I think you could.”

“You're mistaken,” Louis informs her.

She grins at him.

“Everyone's lost the plot,” Louis declares. “I'm the last sane man at ITV."

Harry and Niall glance at each other again. Niall very obviously stifles a laugh and Harry looks away, fighting a little smile.

“Oh, whatever, Louis,” Perrie scoffs. “If you don't like him, at the very least I can tell you need a good shag. And don't make a face. I know you go out a lot, but when was the last _good_ one?”

“Hard to come by, those,” says Niall.

When the night has drawn to a conclusion and they're out front under the streetlights, waiting for cabs amidst the noisy hubbub of London on a Friday night, Harry bumps his thigh against Louis’.

“No...” Louis murmurs to him. “I can't do the casual thing with you, mate, I can't...”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Harry whispers innocently.

Louis glances over to make sure no one else is witnessing this. They’re far enough away, huddled under the awning to avoid the misty drizzle that's coming down now, and absorbed in their own discussion.

He's tempted, but his common sense wins out. It's a simple fact that the two of them make better friends than boyfriends. They learned that the hard way.

“I just hate seeing you all lonely,” Harry murmurs with a crooked smile.

“Bollocks,” Louis whispers, grinning. “You're just a big opportunistic slut like I am. Let's be adults, here.”

“Yeah, that's fair,” Harry says, nudging his shoulder. “Go home by your lonesome and get stoned, then...”

“Exactly my plan, actually.”


	4. Chapter 4

Liam’s giraffe package gets Louis right in his soft spots -- in that gentle center of his that hasn't managed to scar over yet from the day-to-day of a career in journalism.

It isn’t stunning or particularly ingenuitive; Perrie shot it well, and Liam is great at voice overs, but you can tell this isn't his usual area of coverage, and he missed an interview with a veterinarian by being too accommodating and letting the vet go off to lunch instead of sitting down with them. Perrie had rung Louis to complain about Liam’s lack of aggression.

“I suppose that's the thing when you've interviewed athletes for years, isn't it? You normally get them on the sidelines or in the locker room, you're not chasing so much.”

“Give him time,” Louis said in amusement, as he walked up out of the Tube and toward the station.

When Liam goes into the studio to present the weekend one-fifteen with Cheryl, Louis sits down in front of his computer and watches the story in its entirety.

It’s sweet. It’s gentle and reverent. Louis can tell Liam took this assignment very seriously; in no way does this bloke think he’s above doing a zoo puff piece.

Louis takes the headphones off and sits still for a moment. His heart is beating quick in his chest. He’s growing sort of terrified of the tender feelings Liam creates in him.

He busies himself for the next hour, waiting for Liam to finish up. He peeks in the studio occasionally. Liam is clearly nervy, but Cheryl is an old hat at this and carries both of them easily, making sure their patter flows smooth and light.

At two-ten, Louis has camped himself in the doors to the studio, absorbed in watching Liam, who has begun to sweat under the lights. It occurs to Louis that he’s never sat under them for this long before.

When they wrap up, Cheryl passes Louis and pats him on the arm. “Hey! I like him!” she whispers.

“Fantastic,” he whispers back.

Liam sits there, alone at the desk. A PA comes by to wipe the foundation from his face and take his earpiece. He chats with her, and makes her laugh.

Louis finds himself idly smiling. It drops from his face as soon as he realizes it’s there. Right after, Liam glances over at him, as if he somehow sensed this. Louis gives him a small wave without unfolding his arms. Liam smiles.

When the PA has gone, Louis shuts the door to the studio floor and approaches the presenter desk. He leans against the prompter, watching Liam and not speaking, just to see what he’ll do.

Liam fidgets and stares at him in discomfort.

“Louis?” he says, after only a few moments. Louis smiles.

“Doesn’t take much to rattle you, does it?” he says. “What if I was Putin?”

“Hey, that isn’t fair,” Liam exclaims. “I’ve got good nerves, really, I swear. It’s just you… you make me nervous, is all.”

Louis gets tingles in his stomach. He clears his throat. “Right, so,” he says. “The name of the game is, I ask you questions. You get a question right --” he pulls a bag of Skittles from his pocket “-- you get a Skittle. You get it wrong, I throw a Skittle at you. Got it?”

“I don’t even like Skittles that much,” Liam protests.

“Well, too bad, ‘cos the name of the game has got Skittles in it twice.”

Liam sighs in resignation and nods his head.

Louis rips open the bag. “We’ll start out easy. Who’s the Defense Secretary?”

“ _That’s_ easy?” Liam says, looking utterly demoralized. He shifts in his suit, which is brand-new, well-fitted over his broad shoulders and undoubtedly not very comfortable. Louis throws a Skittle at his face. It dings him in the forehead.

“Hey!” Liam cries, indignant.

“Give us an answer, mate, even if it’s the wrong one.”

“Oh, God. Um… Theresa May?”

“No,” Louis exclaims, throwing another Skittle at him, this time hitting him square in the chest. “Don’t be daft, she’s the Home Secretary!”

“I can’t be expected to know all the cabinet by heart!” Liam says, throwing his hands in the air. “I didn’t know I’d be tested on that!”

“What the hell did you think I’d ask you today?” Louis says, flabbergasted. “What if you got assigned a story at Number Ten tomorrow? What if you ran into Theresa May and you had to speak with her, and you’re there with a big bleedin’ ITV logo on your press badge, and you say to her, oh, hello, Madame Defense Secretary! How are you today! And she’s like, good God, so they’re all fuckin’ dingbats down there!”

“I’m not a dingbat!”

“I know you aren't, so quit actin’ like one!”

Louis pelts another Skittle at him for good measure. Liam comes from behind the desk, his face red. Louis had forgotten that he's taller, and feels himself puffing up and rising to his tiptoes. Liam storms over to him and grabs him hard by the wrists.

Blood pounds in Louis’ veins, away from his brain and straight to his cock. Liam’s grip is so strong and sure that he can hardly breathe. He looks up at Liam and tries desperately not to think about being manhandled by him in bed.

“Stop throwing Skittles at me, please,” Liam says patiently.

“Alright,” Louis demurs.

Liam drops his wrists. “You know,” he says, “Zayn warned me you might give me a hard time --”

Wounded, Louis takes a step back. “Mentioning him is never going to win you any points with me,” he says coolly.

“Louis --”

“No, let’s leave this for the day,” Louis mutters. It’s sort of unfair of him, he knows. He wants to get out of this room for reasons that have nothing to do with Zayn and everything to do with how he can’t control how he’s feeling about Liam right now.

“Louis -- I do want your help, I’m grateful for it --”

“Study up better, then,” Louis says. “Meet me Monday. Are you in? You working on anythin’?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, observing him carefully. “I’m shadowing Walsh in the morning, and Paul wants me to write a longer version of the zoo piece for the web.”

Shadowing Walsh. So Harry was right, after all.

“Alright, that should take you like, an hour, tops,” Louis says. “I’ll find you when I’ve got a break in my schedule. Know more by then than you did today. Yeah?”

Liam nods.

Louis departs. He doesn’t draw a full breath of air until he’s well out of the studio.

 

/

 

Liam comes home to Sophia packing her things.

It’s a sort of stupid sight; she’s pulling her belongings out of packed boxes just to repack them into her bags. That’s how Liam knows immediately what she’s doing and why she’s doing it. In the boxes, their belongings were all mixed together. If she wants to leave him, she has to go and separate them.

He sensed this might be coming; he's been dreading it for a while now. He knows part of the reason he was so eager to move to London for this job was to make a fresh start for them.

That he expected it doesn’t make it any less devastating. Sophia was such a breath of fresh air for him; this funny, gorgeous woman who he had only pined over from afar when they were in school, but who he’d managed to charm as an adult. He felt healed by the fact that she loved him and believed in him. As soon as that waned, he started doubting everything about himself again.

Liam stands, crying in silence while she packs. He doesn’t beg her not to go. He doesn’t have the stomach for it.

Sophia comes to him once she’s filled two Nordstrom gym bags. She kisses him on the nose and wipes his eyes.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m sorry, love,” she says. “I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t want what you want.”

“What d’you think I want?”

“I think you need me to love you so hard that you don’t feel insecure anymore."

Liam recoils from this like she hit him.

“I think you want me to commit to you more than I even _can!_ I’m not ready to get married, alright?”

“We’re twenty-six!” Liam cries, his voice hoarse. “Half our friends are married! When are you going to be ready?”

“It isn’t _right!_ I don’t know if it’s _me_ , or us, but…”

She steps back from him, shaking her head.

“It isn’t right.”

Sophia takes her things downstairs. Liam follows her, for reasons he isn’t quite sure of. His feet sound loud on the thinly carpeted stairs of their otherwise silent duplex. He sniffles, aching over how pathetic he must look as he stands in the center of their living room.

She calls an Uber.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Sophia tells him, giving him a hug.

“Baby, don’t do this,” he begs, clinging to her. “Don’t go. Let’s talk.”

“No, no,” she cries. “We’ve done this before, you know we have, you always manage to talk me out of it. I promise, this is better for both of us! I promise, Liam, just listen to me, it is. We can’t keep dragging this out when it isn’t working.”

“I can’t -- you can’t leave me _alone_ right now,” he says frantically, and regrets it as soon as he does, because it’s manipulative and it sounds more dire than he means it to. “I just -- I’ve just started a new job, it’s fucking awful, I’m so out of my depth! I’ve hardly got any friends in London --”

“You’ve got your friend from uni, Zayn,” she says. Her phone dings. “And, love, you need to learn how to be alone. Alright?”

Liam has absolutely nothing to say to this. He stares at her, open-mouthed, as she walks out into the foggy London night, out of his life. Her kitten heels clack on the concrete steps, and then the door shuts heavily behind her, and she’s gone.

He goes to the couch and cries for a while, then retrieves a bottle of whiskey from one of the upstairs boxes and drinks while he cries some more. He puts the television on and cries to the BBC at ten, because there’s some puff piece about Kate and Wills and they look so in love.

He does call Zayn, then, afraid he might be losing his mind from dehydration.

Zayn tells him to stay put, and shows up an hour later with an entire gram of weed.

“Leeyum, Leeyum,” he says reassuringly, when Liam opens the door sniffling at him. “Mate, she ain’t worth all this, I promise.”

“I was going to _marry_ her,” Liam chokes out.

“Alright, alri-ight,” Zayn soothes him, ushering him back into the darkness of his flat. He flips lights on as they go, his hands at the small of Liam's back, and then pushes him gently down onto the couch. He collapses next to him, leaning his weight against Liam and his head against Liam's shoulder, then pulls a bowl and grinder from his pocket.

“I don't smoke,” Liam says hoarsely.

“You do tonight, mate.”

Zayn packs and lights the bowl for him, and even drags the smoke for him before pressing it to his lips. Liam inhales and then settles back against the couch, lead-limbed from his whiskey and all his crying.

“I don’t want be alone again,” he whispers. “It’s so hard to do it all over again. Finding somebody… we were together two years...”

“C’mon,” Zayn says, nudging him. He lights the bowl again and takes his own drag. “You're only twenty-six, yeah? You're the face now, Liam. You've got the best gig. On TV on the weekends, when all the hard-partying birds are home hungover and watchin’ you, gettin’ crushes on you, an’ then you've got all week long to run into ‘em in pubs and clubs.”

“I don't want that,” Liam mumbles.

“Yeah, you do. Not tonight, but you will.”

Zayn snuggles closer to Liam, the smell of his breath a strange mix of bitterness from saliva tainted by acrid smoke and sweetness from the mints he's always popping in his mouth and crushing between his teeth. He never sucks on them, always crushes them. His weight on Liam is solid and comforting. Liam drifts off, exhausted.

 

/

 

In the morning Liam wakes with cottonmouth and a throbbing headache. Several Advils and a glass of water lie on the table in front of him. He sits up, shrugging a blanket from his shoulders that Zayn must have placed there, and takes the pills gratefully.

“Made you an egg,” Zayn calls from the kitchen, and then appears with said egg on a plate.

“Thanks, mate,” Liam says, rubbing his eyes. He woke up knowing in his heart that Sophia had left him, so there's no painful reliving of it, but the details of last night come back to him slowly. He cringes as they do.

He remembers Louis’ annoyance and disappointment with him at work, and cringes doubly.

“I've got to, um,” he says, and then coughs up a smoking-induced wad of phlegm into a tissue. "Wow, that's disgusting."

"Means your lungs are working," Zayn says, and sets the plate in front of him. He's dressed, leather jacket on and his hair done.

“I've got to do some things for work,” Liam says, fearing Zayn might try to stick around, and wanting to be alone to mope for a few hours.

“That's alright,” Zayn says with a shrug. “I've got an errand. Want to do dinner later? I could get takeaway for us.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Round seven?”

“Sure,” Liam says agreeably.

“Weird question,” Zayn says, and lights a cigarette, seemingly without pausing to consider if Liam would want Zayn to smoke in his house. He doesn't care, of course. Sophia would have cared, and she's gone.

“Has Louis been helpin’ you out?” he continues.

Liam looks up at him, baffled. “Yeah?”

“Has he been hard-arsed?”

“A bit.”

“Like how?”

Liam shakes his head. “I dunno… just… he seems to expect a lot from me.”

Zayn smokes as he considers this.

“It's fine, really,” Liam says, growing uncomfortable with the troubled history that he knows is underlying the question. “I don't -- he's giving me a hard time because he has to. I need to learn. And I need to lighten up a bit, honestly. You know that about me.”

Zayn clears his throat. “Right. Well, I'm off,” he says.

Liam stands and walks him to the door.

“Thanks,” he tells him. “For coming over. It means a lot. You're like, it, as far as my friends in London go.”

Zayn thwaps him on the arm in a brotherly way. “I've got you, mate.”

He bounces down the steps, tugging his sunglasses down from his dark hair and over his eyes. Liam watches him walk away down the street, then shuts the door with a soft sigh.

 

/

 

Louis and Niall play football every Sunday at eleven, in a local league that they've been the captains of for the past two years. There’s a high turnover every season, as any new teammates often quickly realize that football is not all they've cracked it up to be in their workday fantasies or their rose-tinted memories of playing it in secondary.

Louis can't imagine quitting. He's so competitive that without an outlet for it besides work, he'd likely spend all his free time at the station and become a terrifying pale specter of himself with a hunched spine and atrophied muscles.

As far as he can tell, Niall mostly keeps at it because he loves Louis and being outdoors in equal measure.

Today’s opponent cancelled on them, so they're having a scrimmage against themselves. Niall is on right wing offense, and continually dribbles straight toward Louis on left wing defense, only to have the ball handily removed from his care and sent far upfield every time. Niall just grins at him when this happens, like he genuinely enjoys being beaten if it makes someone else happy.

They finish at noon on the dot. Louis is by the bleachers, toweling off his sweat and peeling off his shin guards when he sees a familiar figure in his peripheral vision.

It's Zayn, leaning against a tree and smoking. Louis’ heart twists in his chest. Zayn crooks his finger at him and inclines his head.

Louis has no interest in talking to him, but he supposes there isn't a way out of it. He doesn't want Zayn to start up with Niall, who's still on the pitch kicking the ball around with their teammate Owen.

“Oi,” Louis calls, striding over to him, arms folded. “What’re you doing here?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Don't be an arse, please,” he says, tossing his cigarette to the ground and grinding it into the soft, damp grass.

“I'm an arse _?_ ” Louis demands.

“No, I'm askin’ you _not_ to be one,” Zayn says in exasperation. He cracks his knuckles. “It's about Liam.”

Louis pauses, softening somewhat in his demeanor. “I'm listening.”

“I just want you to know,” Zayn says, “that ‘e’s goin’ through a rough time, so go easy on him at work.”

“What rough time?”

Zayn sighs. “He's just had his girlfriend leave him.”

Louis experiences a complicated series of emotions, and fights to keep his face even.

“Fuck,” he says genuinely. “Sorry to hear that.”

“So go easy on him,” Zayn says again, like Louis is thick. Louis bristles.

“You know,” he says, mouthing off before he even has the chance to reconsider, “the funny thing about givin’ input on goings-on at ITV is, it's usually reserved for people who work there, innit?”

“God, this is so boring,” Zayn snaps. “This is such a boring conversation. Don't you get tired of resentin’ me for moving up? Could you ever, like, I dunno, just be happy for somebody?”

“If you think that's what I'm angry about, you're more cracked than I thought,” Louis snarls. “But enjoy bein’ another pretty face for the Beeb.”

“I am enjoying it. Love it, actually.”

“Well, cheers. Best you don't run out on _them_ on one of the biggest news days of the year, yeah?”

Zayn rolls his eyes again. “Like I'm in tight with ISIS, I know when they're about to attack? Christ, Louis --”

“Hey,” Niall calls, approaching them with a football in his hands. “Everything alright?”

“I was just leaving,” Zayn mutters, backing away.

“Right, well, see you around,” Niall says brightly and somewhat disingenuously.

Zayn gives them a half-hearted wave as he departs, up the hill and back toward the road. Louis gives his departing back the finger.

“Hey,” he says to Niall. “Got rid of him right quick.”

Niall laughs. “He feels guilty.”

“Aye, you didn't give him a hard time about leaving, so he actually regrets hurting you. I'm just the mouthy cunt who’s jealous of all his _success_.”

“Oh, Louis… That’s not how he feels about you, lad. Not at all.”

“Ah, whatever.”

“What’d he want, anyway?”

“To tell me I should go easy on Liam, ‘cos his sexy girlfriend’s just dumped him.”

Niall gives Louis a sidelong look.

“What?” Louis says, unsettled.

“Nothin’...”

“Oh, come on…” Louis says, anxiety rising in him from this implication.

“I didn't say anythin’, lad,” Niall says, putting his hands up and turning to walk away toward their car. Louis hitches his gym bag up on his shoulder and tags after him.

“Neil,” he protests.

“Quit it! I didn't.”

Louis falls silent. His cleats squelch in the mud as they walk.

“If I admit he's sort of fit, will you leave me alone?” he finally says.

Niall snorts. “Didn't even ask.”

Louis slings an arm around his shoulders and noogies him.

 

/

 

It takes Liam a really long time to turn his scripts into web copy. He’s never been strong with print-style writing; he’s more of a conversationalist. He keeps sending drafts over to Jesy, who heads up the web team, only to have her turn them back around to him with a load of corrections.

It doesn’t help that Louis is hovering around the newsroom. Something about his presence makes it hard for Liam to concentrate.

 

/

 

After an hour of waiting around for Liam and annoying everyone else, Louis goes upstairs into Paul’s glass-walled office that overlooks the first floor and starts bothering him instead.

Paul and Perrie are discussing some photographer’s best practices nonsense that doesn't really matter to Louis because he’s never out in the field, so he shoots rubber bands at both of them from the couch until Perrie comes over to him and, continuing to talk conversationally with Paul, puts him in a headlock until he bleats in protest.

“I don't understand how someone with six younger siblings acts like a youngest sibling himself,” Paul says mildly as Perrie releases him.

“It's part of my charm,” Louis says, grinning.

Paul raises an eyebrow and smiles indulgently. “So tell me, how are things with your boy?”

“My boy?” Louis says, picking a coffee stirrer out of a cup full of them on Paul’s desk and sticking it between his teeth like a toothpick. “Who's my _boy?_ ”

“The handsome duckling you’ve taken under your wing,” Paul says with a snort.

“Lima bean,” Perrie clarifies, glancing at him, her blonde ponytail swinging. She's got a diamond-studded septum ring in today; it glitters in the low fluorescent light.

“Why is the lima bean my boy?” Louis says, going over to the glass wall and looking down, out over the newsroom. Liam is still sitting at his desk, typing away, squinting like he's writing _Anna Karenina_.

He turns back in time to see Paul and Perrie exchange amused glances.

“You do talk about him quite a lot,” Paul points out.

Louis turns toward the glass again, watching Liam, sucking on the coffee stirrer. “No I don't,” he says absently. “Do I?”

“You know, he's actually quite fun,” Perrie says. “Good sense of humor, all that. He just comes off like a stiff ‘cos he's frightened of you.”

“What, I'm _scary_?”

Liam pushes his sleeves up and runs his hands through his hair, looking frustrated. He laces his fingers behind his head. His biceps stand out. Louis bites down on the stirrer. He briefly imagines Liam's hands fisted hard in his hair as Liam thrusts into him, and flushes from his cheeks down to the top of his chest.

He pushes this very quickly from his mind. He doesn't dare turn around.

“You can be intimidating,” Perrie says.

Louis barely even hears what she's saying.

“I'll go help him,” he says, striding toward the door. “He looks lost.”

 

/

 

Liam is so engrossed in his work that he doesn't realize Louis had been heading his way until a hand settles on his shoulder. He jumps in his seat and flinches.

“Relax,” Louis says with a chuckle.

Liam does, but not completely.

Louis taps the screen. “What's holding you up?”

“I dunno,” Liam says, frustration creeping into his voice. “I don't -- I don't get why this is so hard. I can tell it’s not right, but I can't figure out why.”

“Your lede, nut graf, they're missing a lot of info. It's a story, not a script. Keep in mind you ain't got the sound or the visuals, you've got to create the visuals with your writing. D’you know inverted pyramid?”

“No, I didn't,” Liam says, turning his head and looking up at Louis. “I barely remember what a but graf is, honestly.”

Louis looks handsome, today; he's freshly shaved and has a lot of product in his hair. He smells good. He always smells good.

Liam's eyes zero in on a spot on his neck where he cut himself with the razor, right beside his Adam’s apple.

“What'd you read at uni?” Louis says, cutting through his reverie.

“Business courses, mostly.”

“No journalism?”

“No,” Liam says. Louis’ face changes. Liam feels like he's disappointed him, again.

“Who taught you to write scripts, then?” Louis asks, making eye contact with him. Liam worries at his lip with his teeth.

“I got the job straight out of school,” he says. “My girlfriend Danielle’s dad was the senior sports presenter, and he just needed a sidekick, or whatever. I didn't have any other prospects, and I knew a lot about sports, so I said sure. Then he retired and I sort of took over… but he taught me everything I know.”

“Huh,” Louis says, studying him.

“What?”

“Nothing, that just helps me understand you.”

Liam laughs. “Good? Bad?”

Louis smiles. It's wonderful to be smiled at by him. “Good.”

“So I studied up on current events,” Liam says. “But I've got a proposition for you.”

“A proposition, yeah? Let's hear it,” Louis says, his smile widening.

“There's a basketball court in the car park...”

“That there is.”

“You much for basketball?”

“Not my first pick, height-wise…” Louis gestures broadly to himself. “But go on.”

“We play basketball,” Liam suggests. “One-on-one. Normal play, except you ask me shit. I get it right, I get a free shot on you. I get it wrong, you get a free shot on me. Whoever wins buys the other dinner.”

“Oh, he fancies a _wager_ , does he?” Louis says, his eyes twinkling. “Now you're talking my language.”

“Excellent,” Liam says. “Just let me change.”

“Hold on,” Louis says, and leans over him, quickly rewriting his story for him. Liam sits there, waiting, his skin on fire from how close Louis is. His arm keeps brushing Liam's chest.

“I'll teach you inverted pyramid at some point, mate,” Louis says softly, “but best if we get Jesy her story, first.”

“Thanks,” Liam says, feeling a pang of affection for him.

 

/

 

Liam soon learns that Louis is a rotten little cheater who, when there's dinner at stake, will throw a dirty elbow every chance he gets. But it's alright, because he's taller and soon gains a point advantage on Louis after sinking four in a row. Louis is definitely faster than Liam, but badly beaten by his longer reach.

“Alright, alright,” Louis pants after almost tearing Liam's tank top off in an egregious foul. “I've got questions for you, lad. Don't get so cocky quite yet.”

“Go on, then,” Liam says, dribbling in place while they both catch his breath. His confidence is bolstered by his winning streak, and he feels more comfortable mouthing off.

Louis is good-looking all flushed and sweaty like this, he notices. He could be a boy ten years younger, playing club sports at uni. And he’s got this puckish quality that makes you want to lurch into his orbit, just to see what he’ll do. Liam glances down, concentrating on the basketball in his hands.

“What's Brexit?” Louis says, folding his arms over his rising and falling chest.

“The UK leaving the EU,” Liam replies easily.

“Alright, started you off simple,” Louis says, and steps aside so Liam can shoot. He misses.

“Ha!”

“I'm still way ahead,” Liam points out.

“Not for long,” Louis says cockily. “What are we votin’ on in June, what's the referendum?”

“Article fifty. The deal from Cameron, about changes to EU rules.”

“No,” Louis says, smiling.

“What?” Liam says, squinting at him. It's one of those frigid but brightly sunny February days, and the back of the station is all bright, windowless white-painted walls that hurt his eyes to look at.

“Article fifty is Brexit,” Louis says. “If we stay or go.”

“Oh, shit. Right. But we won't go,” Liam says, idly dribbling. “It isn't a real referendum, it's not binding.”

“If it gets a majority, we'll go. Trust me. And I'm scared it might.”

Liam tosses Louis the ball. He does a lay-up and sinks it.

“What makes you say that?”

“‘Cos our Cabinet’s full of Leavers,” Louis says, dribbling. “And they're dominating the news cycle already… driving that stupid NHS bus around, all that. They're more of a coalition. Remain can blow it.”

“You sound confident,” Liam says skeptically.

“The status quo never motivates people, and this is all going to come down to turnout.”

“But it's such an extreme thing, leaving. I feel like -- I dunno, you'd think people wouldn't vote for change if the change is that scary.”

Louis passes the ball back to him. “Zayn…” he makes a face. “Zayn and Niall and I talked about this a lot. Before there even was a referendum. But there's been a shift to the right all over. You feel it, yeah?”

“I can't really say,” Liam says. “I dunno, I'm not political enough.”

“You _feel_ it, though,” Louis says. “Don't you?”

“Like in my gut, you mean?”

“Right. You're like me, you’re an instinctual bloke.”

Liam’s heart flutters stupidly in his chest. “What makes you say that?”

Louis smiles at him. “Just watchin’ your reel, talking to you…”

“Oh,” Liam says. His heart flutters faster. He palms the basketball back and forth. “I mean, yeah. I feel it. People are scared, is all. Of ISIS, and whatever.”

“And if you look at similar times in history… Doesn't look good, is all I'm saying.”

“But, like -- Cameron doesn't even actually want Leave, does he?”

Louis grins at him. “Nice, take a shot for that.”

Liam does, and sinks a free throw. “I mean, he just wants the renegotiation, right? And he thinks it’s a way to like, toss a bone to the anti-Europe people without putting himself in any actual danger. But he’s probably going to take a hit either way, right? We’re so divided right now.”

“Right. I mean, that's what I reckon.” Louis studies him. “That was sharp, mate. Nice.”

Liam is flattered by this, and glances down, smiling. While he’s off his guard, Louis charges him for the ball. Liam refuses to let go of it and they fall to their sides on the court, laughing hysterically.

“ _Traveling_ ,” Louis cries out dramatically, struggling to wrest the ball from Liam's tight grip.

“I’m not traveling!” Liam shouts, wheezing with laughter. “I can't travel while you're fouling me!”

They get to their feet, their laughter slowly dying down, bits of gravel clinging to their shorts.

“I ought to go back and write the six,” Louis says reluctantly.

Liam has a pang of sadness. He should leave; technically his shift is over, and he isn't due back in until Saturday. But he doesn't want to go home to his lonely flat, and he doesn't want to part from Louis, not when they're finally having fun together.

“Alright,” Liam says. “See you Monday?”

Louis nods. Liam digs his keys out of his basketball shorts and starts heading to his car.

“Liam,” Louis calls after him.

He turns, raising his eyebrows.

“I can tell you studied,” Louis says. He looks almost shy for a moment, smoothing his sweaty fringe off to the side and dodging eye contact. “It showed. I appreciate that. Sorry if I gave you a hard time, like.”

“Sorry if you thought I don't take this seriously,” Liam says, clearing his throat.

Louis smiles. “I'm gettin’ the impression you take a lot of things seriously, actually.”

Liam laughs.

“Speaking of things I take seriously,” he says, “you promised me a dinner.”

Louis winks at him. “I'll come through! Even if it's just takeaway.”

“That's fine by me.”

“It's probably definitely going to be takeaway.”

Liam laughs.

Louis waves, and begins his walk back toward the studio. Liam watches him go, squinting into the sun.

 

/

 

Louis goes out with Harry to a gay club in hopes that he'll pull and get someone to fuck the living daylights out of him. He's praying this little thing he’s got for Liam has nothing to do with Liam himself, and more to do with the fact that he hasn't been fucked well in a while. He really sort of needs it, to get knocked out of his head and manhandled by someone.

They sit at the bar, chatting; Harry had a bad day one man band-ing it and then got shouted at by some toughs during his live shot, so his ego’s a bit bruised tonight. Louis listens to him and makes sympathetic noises, while stirring his drink and giving lecherous glances to any muscly man in his sightline.

A little later in the night, when the pounding bass has started to go right to his cock and the lights in the darkness of the club have begun to go all smeary, one of them comes over to him and orders him a shot.

“Cheers,” Louis says tipsily. “Thanks, mate.”

“You look like you need some good dick in your life,” the bloke whispers to him in an American accent. “You like to get dicked hard, baby? You wanna sit on this? I'm eight inches.”

Harry overhears this and chokes on his white wine spritzer.

“Alright, that's disgustin’, get out of here,” Louis snaps, turning on his stool and shoving him. The bloke puts his hands up and looks sheepish, then turns awkwardly and leaves.

“Eight inches, you fuckin’ joke,” Louis calls after him. “Nobody’s eight inches!”

He does take the shot, though, because it was free.

“In his defense, you are sort of giving off that vibe,” Harry says, eyeing him up and down. “And you're wearing jeans with, like... rips in the thighs and arse.”

“It's laundry day! I wore my last good trousers to work!”

They end the night leaving equally discouraged by their prospects, and by the state of men in London in general. While they're standing outside, waiting for the Uber, Harry steps into Louis’ space. Louis looks up at him, not pushing him away, and Harry tips his chin up with his hand and kisses him gently on the mouth, sliding a knee between his legs.

They snog comfortably for a while, shoved up against the wall. Louis’ jacket and shirt ride up, and his skin scrapes on the brick. He likes how that feels. He really starts to get into it, taking Harry by the wrists and placing his big hands over his arse. Harry goes one further and slides them into the rips and up under his briefs, squeezing his bare flesh. Louis arches into his touch, grinding against his thigh and sucking on his bottom lip. He's starting to get hard.

“I miss that arse,” Harry murmurs.

“You can fuck me tonight, if you want,” Louis breathes, his voice low and raspy. “For old time’s sake.”

Harry sighs and laughs against his throat. “I want to get fucked, is the problem...”

Louis sags against him in frustration. “We can trade off?”

“I dunno. I can’t imagine that ending well.”

“This is why we just ought to leave well enough alone,” Louis says with a dry laugh. “And it only just stopped being weird between us -- Fuck. I dunno. Sorry. I'm drunk.”

“No, no,” Harry says. “I’m drunk too, I shouldn't have -- sorry.”

They awkwardly disentangle from each other. The cross on Harry’s neck sways back and forth as they do, catching the neon lights from outside the club. Louis kisses him lightly on the mouth, a friendly kiss. A goodnight kiss. Harry’s lips are soft.

His phone chimes.

“Uber’s here.”

Harry lets go of his waist.


	5. Chapter 5

“Leigh, you've gone way over, you're holding us fuckin’ hostage, love, toss it back, toss it back,” Louis says, without any malice, but very fast and staccato into his headset.

On the monitor, Leigh Anne gives no facial indication that she's been berated, but as Louis listens to her toss back to the studio, he hears a bit of anxiety in her voice. He makes a mental note to sit down with her tomorrow, and assure her she's doing a good job. She's fairly new to this, after all; two years ago she was still trying to become a singer. It was Jesy, a friends of hers since primary school, who first thought she'd make a good reporter. She introduced him to Louis, who agreed, and pushed Paul to give her a shot.

“Shit,” Louis groans. He's sitting in the dark control room with Olly, his usual director, surrounded by monitors and keyboards. It's his favorite time of day -- six to seven. “Between that and Walsh goofing up, we're fifteen seconds heavy, now.”

“I can drop that advert for Harry’s story,” Olly says.

“How long does that run?”

“Twelve, that's why I suggested it. Nick cut it for him, so it’s extra tight.”

“I really want people to stay tuned in for that, though.” Louis drums his fingers on the table.

“Up to you, boss, just let me know. Otherwise we’ll have to crunch down Ellie’s forecast, and no banter.”

“Weird weather this week, though, innit?”

“Weird going into the weekend, yeah. Supposed to be warm.”

“Shit,” Louis mutters. “Aye, drop the advert.”

“You win some, you lose some,” Olly intones as he reracks the show.

Harry’s story tonight is the first installment in an investigative series he's working on about a schoolteacher in Richmond upon Thames who had created an after-school program to use it as a front to grift funding money.

He was tipped off on this by a friend in the Met before an arrest even took place, which let him to start gathering information and get a jump on this that even the big papers don't have. Harry's very proud of his work, and he's done an excellent job; he even tracked down the bloke’s brother and charmed his way into an exclusive with him.

Louis has managed to hide from him the fact that if it weren't for his own efforts, this story would have been axed by management. Simon thinks it's hard for their viewers to understand, and overall just a snoozefest. He told marketing to undersell it, which had irked Louis beyond belief.

“It's stealing money from _kids_ , how is that a snoozefest?” Louis keeps demanding of him, only for Simon to roll his eyes and repeat that the mechanism of how the money was stolen is fucking boring, and they need more stories about things like little grannies using their purses to defend themselves from robbers in the middle of High Street. Stories that have already gone viral online all the way in the states.

“Because you know who our demo is, Louis --” Simon had started in on him just yesterday.

“Shandy-drinkin’ Southerners?”

“Okay, well, yes --”

“Daft fuckers, with no patience for real journalism?”

“People without a lot of _time_ , I was going to say,” Simon replied in exasperation. “If you want to spend two thousand words on one story, go work at the fucking Guardian.”

Louis would never. He loves the excitement and flash of television.

When the show is over and he’s getting off, shrugging his corduroy jacket over his shoulders and hollering across the newsroom for anyone who wants a drink to meet him at their usual pub (Niall, Oli, Jesy, Olly and Ed all give him the high sign, Harry passes him on his way out and tells him he’s too tired) it occurs to him that he ought to invite Liam.

He thinks about texting him, but his fingers are too cold, so he rings him as he’s making his way to his car.

“Hey,” Liam says, sounding surprised. “Need me to come in?”

Louis laughs. “What, is there news breaking I don’t know about?”

“I dunno, I just assumed, ‘cos you called me.”

“I can call you for a reason other than work,” Louis says, in a more flirty way than he intended. He makes a face at himself as he fumbles for his keys in his pocket and beeps open his 2010 Ford Fiesta.

“Alright,” Liam says amiably. “So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Louis is warmed in his nethers by the gentlemanly, bassy way Liam says this. He settles into the driver’s seat, blasting the heat and pressing his free hand to the vents.

“Just wanted to see if you’d like to get a drink with us,” Louis says. “We’re going to the same pub we ran into you at. When you were with -- um.”

He cuts himself off so abruptly, he knows he’s blown it. He bites his lip.

“Sophia?”

“Right… her.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“Hang on, did someone tell you we broke up, or something?” Liam says, sounding annoyed.

Louis inhales, wishing it was easier to lie to reporter types. “Yeah, Zayn did.”

Liam heaves a sigh. “Christ… I don't need, like -- to be felt sorry for, Louis. Really, I don't.”

“But that’s not why I’m askin’ you to come out!”

“Why, then?”

“I dunno, mate,” Louis says, laughing. “We work together?”

“We don’t, though. I work weekends.”

For now.

“I’d like to get to know you better,” Louis says honestly. “That alright with you?”

There's a sticky silence. Liam makes a soft noise in his throat, like he's working to replace a preconceived idea in his head and having some trouble. Louis sits in his freezing car, waiting, his hand pressed to the hot vent and his heart in his throat. His body is thrumming with the familiar thrill of the precipice, of the chase, of parts unknown.

“You’re hard to figure,” Liam tells him.

“ _I’m_ hard to figure?” Louis exclaims.

“Yes!”

Louis sighs. He’s such a mess of contradictions, this kid. He supposes maybe it's partly his fault; he really does want for Liam to like him, but he can’t help going about it in sort of backwards ways.

“Alright,” he says. “I mean, that’s fair.”

“I just want this whole thing to work out,” Liam says, and then falls silent.

Louis is at a loss for words, even though what he’s thinking is _me too._

“Come out tonight,” he says softly.

“Okay,” Liam says. “I’ll leave here in a few.”

“You and I’ll probably be the first ones there.”

Another pause.

“That’s fine,” Liam says.

 

/

 

Louis lives incredibly close to work, which is of course incredibly close to their usual pub, so he parks his car in the garage of his flat and walks over. This way, he can drink as much as he likes. And this way, Liam is already there when he gets there, giving him the advantage of being the one to walk in and scope the lay of the land.

Liam is playing darts with some cute brunette bird who seems interested in him. Louis is surly about this as he walks over, but Liam lights up upon seeing him and calls his name in a fond drunken way, so he can’t be too peeved.

Then the girl gives Louis a lingering look, like maybe she likes them a little more streetwise than Liam. He grins at her, and she smiles back. He files this away for later.

“How are you at darts?” Liam says, looking at him. His dark eyes are made darker and warmer by liquor. Louis stuffs his hands in his pockets just to have something to do with them.

“I’m alright,” he says.

Liam lobs a dart at the board, getting close to a bullseye. The girl groans in defeat.

“Sorry -- this is Shay,” Liam says. “Shay, this is Louis, we work together.”

Shay extends her hand, and Louis shakes it.

He looks past her at Liam, who looks handsome in a black henley, with the few days of stubble he keeps growing between shaving for the weekends. Louis briefly imagines that stubble rubbing against his own freshly shaven cheeks, against his inner thighs while Liam sucks his cock. Liam's full lips kissing and sucking him, Liam looking up from under his eyelashes at him with those dark eyes...

“Louis,” Liam says, like he's repeating himself. He's holding his hand out with a few darts in it.

Louis stares at his palm. “Right,” he says, and takes them.

 

/

 

Niall, Oli, Olly and Jesy arrive together as a great noisy pack, late enough in the night that they prompt cheers from some of their fellow regulars who are already wasted. Ed skived off -- he texted Louis _sorry mate! just remembered I’ve got a date tonight_. Louis makes a mental note to ask him where the hell he finds all these girls he’s always going out with.

Liam and Louis have staked out a table toward the back. They hold court there while everyone else stands at the bar, waiting for their drinks. Liam can't hold his alcohol very well, Louis has discovered. He's all loose-limbed and giggly.

“It's funny you're a youngest child,” Louis says, as Liam downs an entire glass of ice water in hopes of warding off a hangover.

“Wait, he is? Oi, me too,” Niall says as he takes a seat, and shuffles his pint to his left hand so he can high-five Liam.

“Well, they're older,” Liam says sleepily, burying his face in his arms. “My sisters.”

Over the night he's been alternately sunny and morose, in the way of a drunk person who’s still grieving a long relationship. Louis had egged him on through a series of shots, and then guiltily led him away from the bar when he realized just how tipsy he’d become. At some point, Shay had left to hit a different pub, although not before taking Louis’ phone and putting her number in with a cheeky smile.

“Your friend is nice, but he's quite clearly on the rebound,” she’d muttered to him.

“I'm neither nice nor on the rebound,” he'd told her. She laughed.

“Tommo has way younger siblings,” Niall says, like he's trying to manufacture conversation between them. He must think there's still tension, there. Louis doesn't tell him that they've spent the last hour happily chatting away about football, or that they each keep smiling irrepressibly and losing their train of though every time they make prolonged eye contact with each other.

“How d’you feel about that?” Liam says, turning his head so he's looking over at Louis, his cheek still resting on his fist.

Louis considers this, as the rest of their party shows up and begins pulling up chairs. The cacophonous din around them gets even louder as Niall starts making small talk with Oli, while Jesy and Olly complain about an ongoing Dejero issue Louis barely understands.

“I love them like crazy, obviously,” he says, taking a sip of his beer. “Just, y’know, it's funny sometimes, it's like they're on a different planet with the worries they have. Me youngest ones are, y’know, just in primary school, so it's weird, ‘cos I've been out of the house since before they were born.”

“I never see it from the other angle,” Liam murmurs.

Louis shrugs, thinking of what Paul said. “Probably’d make more sense for me to be a youngest, but.”

“No, you're definitely a leader,” Liam slurs. “You can tell… I mean I can tell… I dunno.” He pauses. “Feel like if the chips were down I'd, like, do what you told me to.”

Louis glances down, fighting the feeling rising up in him.

“Good to know,” he says, with a bit of dry irony in his voice that's directed entirely at himself.

“I'd like to anchor for you sometime,” Liam says shyly.

“I reckon that day’ll come sooner than you might think,” Louis tells him.

Liam looks at him curiously.

Oli flops down next to him, then. “‘Sup, mate?”

“Nothin’ really, how was the eleven?”

“Dramatic,” Oli says, rolling his eyes. “All the cat fights.”

“Cat fights?”

“Mel anchored tonight --”

“Mel C or B?”

“C. And she took Jade’s script and rewrote the entire thing. So Jade was like, lurkin’ in the doorway glaring at her for the entire show, an’ then Mel flubbed her sig-out and went to go shout her down over it. As soon as we were done I just bolted. Left my headphones on the floor. Nobody better take ‘em.”

“Calvin probably already did,” Olly interjects. “He lost his the other day.”

“Well, fuck,” Oli says conversationally.

“Glad I missed that,” Louis says, laughing. “I like my crew, Sharon’s usually too stoned to be a diva and Walsh is just counting down ‘til retirement, now.”

He looks up in time to see a shadow cross Liam’s face.

“I'm going out for a smoke,” Louis says, standing up and patting his arse pockets to figure out which one his lighter’s in, then retrieving it. “Who wants to come?”

There’s a general shrugging around the table. Louis lost the guaranteed smoking pal he had in Zayn, and he hasn’t found a suitable replacement since.

“I do,” Liam says, standing.

“You smoke?” Louis says, surprised.

Liam smiles, swaying on his feet. “Not that often. When I'm drunk, mostly.”

“Niall?”

Niall shakes his head, and when Liam turns to get his coat, he gestures to him while making the universal hand gesture for fucking. Louis gives him the finger with both hands.

“Is it the obscenities portion of the evening now?” Jesy says, like she’s hoping the answer is yes.

“Nah, this one’s just askin’ for it,” Louis banters, giving Niall a jokingly hard stare. “‘E ought to watch himself. _Neil_.”

“Hey, I'm a good boy,” Niall says, while Liam shrugs his jacket on and zips it. “You know that better than anyone, boss man.”

Liam sneezes into his sleeve, and Niall takes his moment of distraction as a chance to mime double-fisting cocks. Louis chucks the lighter at him and Niall ducks, laughing. It bounces off Liam’s thigh.

Liam looks up. “You’ve got to stop throwing shit at me, mate,” he says with a laugh, bending to pick up the lighter and tossing it back underhand.

“You weren’t the intended target there, Liam, I deeply apologize.”

“He's a terror,” Oli says, smirking. “We get hazard pay to work with him.”

“Oh, cheers, you little tosser,” Louis says fondly, and he heads for the door, beckoning Liam to join him.

He opens the door into the alley, so they can talk without street noise. Liam leans against the wall, looking handsome in the darkness. His jacket is leather, and fits him snugly, emphasizing the V shape of his build. He's also got a lot of product in his hair. Louis wonders somewhat uncharitably if Zayn has been guiding Liam’s style since his breakup.

Louis hands him a cigarette, and after lighting his own, hands the lighter over.

Liam tries five or six times to get it going. Wind is blowing northeasterly through the alley, and he isn't practiced in cupping his hands against it.

Louis steps closer to him, his heart fluttering as they get closer, and motions for Liam to light off his. Liam leans forward and breathes in, then separates from him and exhales a mouthful of smoke. Louis stares at the hollows of his cheeks and the line of his brow.

There's an awkward moment of frisson between them. Louis breaks it by saying, “You know, they call that monkeyfucking.”

Liam makes a face and laughs.

“Yeah, I dunno why.”

“Hey, um, thanks,” Liam says, looking at him with warm sincerity. Louis hates when he does that; he feels so pinned by his gaze, so _seen_. “For inviting me out.”

Louis flaps his hand dismissively. “Ain't like I'm forcin’ something. They all like you already, mate. And we're a family, at this station.”

“It's different than my old place,” Liam admits. “We all just sort of did our jobs and went home. It was a really small bureau. And before I got with Sophia, Danielle and I had sort of a tough breakup, and her dad went a bit cold on me after that… started giving me a hard time. Even after he retired, the news director there sort of kept it up on his behalf. Criticized everything I did.”

He trails off, looking sad.

“That's bollocks,” Louis says sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Liam says, smiling in a boyish, drunk way. “She dumped _me_ , is the kicker.”

“Jesus. What a pisser.”

“Yeah,” Liam says, and takes a long drag. “Sorry... I've been feeling really sorry for myself, tonight, it's not a good look."

“You know,” Louis says softly, “when you said that you want things to work out, here."

Liam’s eyes snap to his face, round and dark and curious.

“I think they are, mate. I mean." Louis blows out some smoke. "I like you. Alright? I didn't want to, but I do."

Liam’s drunk smile widens.

“Don't look at me like that,” he mutters, trying not to smile back.

“Like what?” His voice is a soft rumble in his chest.

“I dunno,” Louis says.

He glances up at Liam. Liam gazes at him apprehensively.

“What did you mean when you said that I'd anchor for you sooner than I think?” he says after a moment.

“Oh,” Louis breathes, and takes a drag. “Uhh. Shit. Remember how you were shadowing Walsh on Monday?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, knitting his eyebrows.

Louis realizes with a start that he's finished his cigarette. He lights another and leans against the wall, squinting out into the darkness of the alley, beating back the haze of four beers so he can form his sentence properly.

“He’s leaving,” Louis says. “Not now, but soon. A year, or maybe two. Simon brought you on so he can groom you for the weekday desk, see if you’ve got what it takes… put you on some tough stories, test you, bring you up to standard.”

Liam goes pale. He steps back from Louis and tosses his cigarette butt aside.

“I’m way too young for that,” he exclaims.

“Simon likes to get them young,” Louis says with a wan smile.

“You _knew_ about this?”

Louis shakes his head. “No, no, mate. I mean… sort of.”

Liam sighs heavily. “Louis!”

He sounds properly angry, which Louis hates to hear. He doesn’t like when anyone says his name all angry like that, but Liam sounds so wounded at the idea of Louis lying to him.

“He hasn’t come right out and said it to me! I’ve just sort of inferred, from the way he’s having me work with you --”

“Great,” Liam says, putting his face in his hands. “Look -- I _can’t._ I’m not sharp enough. I’m not experienced enough. Walsh does, like -- he sits down with heads of state! He’s -- he doesn’t just stay behind a desk and _read_ , he does so much!”

“Because he’s the face of the station,” Louis says. “But he’s movin’ on. Simon needs a new face. An’ ‘e likes yours.”

“I’m going to disappoint him,” Liam says, dropping his hands. His expression is one of helpless defeat, and in the dark, with the way he's dressed, he looks so young; more like twenty-three, twenty-four. “I’m going to blow this.”

Louis takes another drag.

“No, you won’t,” he calmly assures him. “I won’t let you.”

 

/

 

 _you up ?_ Louis texts Shay, when he’s walking home in the eerie 2 a.m. quiet of London, warm and stumbly from alcohol.

 _Yeah_ , she texts back. _Wanna meet?_

 

/

 

He wakes with a splitting headache. He should have done like Liam, he thinks, and drank more water.

Shay is at the foot of his bed gathering her clothes up, obviously trying to be quiet. She glances up at him and gives a sheepish smile.

“Don’t worry, I called an Uber,” she whispers.

Louis sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist. Sober, and in the blue early-morning dark of his bedroom, she looks slightly different than he remembers. A small hickey stands out on her collarbone.

“You can stay,” Louis says, clearing his throat. He scratches the back of his head. “We can get breakfast...”

“No, no,” Shay says, smiling. She comes over and kisses him on the cheek, then makes her way to the door. “No offense… you seem like a sweet guy, but I didn’t come over because I wanted to do this whole bit, you know what I mean?”

“Ouch,” Louis says, laughing mirthlessly. “Aye, but I know what you mean.”

“Have a good Friday,” she whispers as she heads out the door.

“You too,” he calls after her.

He lies back against the bed, then scrounges around on his coffee table for a joint and lights it, dragging the smoke in and closing his eyes. His thigh muscles are sore from fucking her. His throat is dry. The acrid smoke stings his lungs, and he coughs.

As much as Louis liked last night, it didn't scratch whatever itch he's got right now. He can tell already.

But soon he’s falling back asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

“I need you to work out this tiff with Mel C,” Louis says gently to Jade.

Jade sighs and takes a sip of her coffee, her glittery nail art shining in the low light of the conference room. They're having their monthly weekday producer’s meeting: him, Jade, Andy, Ed and Michael are all huddled around the table.

Louis sits at the head of the table always, since he directs the team, but he likes it to be more of a conversation than a grim lecture.

“She's gotten impossible lately,” Ed interjects. “It isn't just Jade she rewrites. I've started getting back scripts that she's totally pencil-fucked. She's being a massive diva.”

“Christ, seriously?”

They all nod.

“Well, if it's that big a problem, I'll talk to her, then.”

Jade looks relieved.

“Yeah, please,” Michael says, glancing up and slipping his hoodie off his head. “She'd listen to you, I reckon.”

Louis nods as he goes down his list of points to hit in the meeting. “So Andy... you produce for the weekend sometimes,” he says. “How's our new Jonathan?”

“What, Liam?”

Louis sits back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “Aye, Liam.”

“Oh, he's great,” Andy says emphatically. “Really sweet bloke. Not a diva at all. Reads whatever I give him, and he'll ask if he doesn't know a word instead of having me take it out. No, I love him.”

Louis glances around. “Where do we think he's at with like, news judgment?”

Andy laughs. “Doesn't seem to have much,” he says. “Or if he does, he doesn't show it. Just sort of goes along with whatever.”

“I like him,” Jade says conversationally. “He's been really sweet to me. But news judgment… yeah. I mean, he came up from sports, right? He’ll need some practice.”

Louis exhales softly, a familiar resentment thrumming in him. It really ought to be Harry behind the desk, it ought to be someone who could look David Cameron himself in the eye and slice him down to size.

But Liam had admitted as much himself last night, hadn’t he? And if it can’t be Harry, then better it be someone sweet, someone noble, someone with a desire to tell the truth who’s just somewhat lacking in the skills to tell it with.

Louis can fill the gaps in Liam with his own knowledge and expertise and ruthlessness. He can make them a team. It’ll be Liam’s face on the telly, but Louis is long past the days where that bothered him. He can entwine himself with this deep-voiced, square-jawed man; they can give to each other what the other needs to excel.

And Liam has his own honest shrewdness, too. He has a quality that can’t be taught. Louis saw a flash of it in him when they played basketball. He twigs to more than he lets on; his sweet goof persona is, to some extent, armor. Louis knows armor, he gets armor.

“I've heard this rumor he's going to be coming to the weekday, and replacing Walsh,” Ed says, giving Louis a serious look.

Louis’ heart jumps. “Still just a rumor,” he says.

“But we know Walsh is leaving when his contract expires.”

“We don't _know_ anything,” Louis demurs, glancing down at his list again, but he's out of talking points. “That’s between him, Paul and Simon.”

Ed and Andy exchange a significant glance.

“On that note,” Louis says, standing, “I'll let you all get back to pretending to do your jobs, yeah?”

There's a chorus of good-natured boos as they all stand, collecting up their things. Nick pokes his head in the door.

“Wassup,” he says, glancing at Louis. “Aw, did I miss a meeting? I love meetings that’ve got nothing to do with me.”

Louis checks his watch. “Isn't there a marketin’ meeting right now you ought to be heading up?” he says with a laugh.

“I ended it early, it was boring,” Nick says. “Simon called in just to argue with us about how much time we should be spending running promos for Harry’s grifting teacher story. I said plenty, he said none.”

“Good luck with that,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. Ed claps him on the shoulder on his way out, squeezing past Nick. The rest of the producers are going out the other door, avoiding the logjam they've created, although Michael is rubbernecking a bit in curiosity. He's new, but he's probably heard some gossip by now about Louis and Nick’s legendary rows.

“So, speaking of Harold… he’s here right now?”

“Not yet. He's nightside Fridays.”

Nick waggles his eyebrows. “Shit. Was hoping to take him out tonight.”

Louis feels a stab of residual jealousy. “Go ahead, he gets off at eleven-thirty. Real vampire hours are just gettin’ started around then.”

Nick clutches his chest in mock agony. “I'm a _vampire_?”

“I dunno what else to call someone who stays out ‘til four in the morning near every night.”

“Who says I stay out ‘til four in the morning?”

“Your Snapchat.”

“I don’t come in ‘til one-thirty,” Nick says defensively. “What should I go to bed early for? You know, you haven’t come to one of my parties in a while, Tommo.”

“Sorry,” Louis says insincerely. He got tired of watching Nick spend entire evenings sniffing around Harry.

“Don’t be sorry, just start showing up again. You’re fun.”

“Not making any promises,” Louis says, walking away into the newsroom. “Start up the themed ones again! The themed ones were a good time.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Nick calls after him half-heartedly.

 

/

 

Liam pulls up to the station around seven; the shy February sun is already down for the night. He finds Louis leaning against the back door, huddled around himself for warmth and smoking.

“Hey,” Louis says in surprise. The sound of his voice makes Liam stop in his tracks.

“Hey,” Liam says, looking at him. “You finish your show?”

“Yeah, I always have a smoke after,” Louis tells him. “What are you here for?”

“Paul called me in to talk really quick.”

A certain expression crosses Louis’ face, and then he smiles. “What about?”

Liam studies him somewhat nervously. “I dunno. Scheduling, I think.”

“Right,” Louis says.

He flicks his cigarette, in a very practised, dainty way. Liam stares at his tattooed fingers, watching the way they move.

He draws nearer to Louis, coming into his space. Louis looks up at him as he does, his eyes widening slightly.

“I need to swipe my badge,” Liam says awkwardly.

“Shit, right,” Louis says, and they do a little dance, trying to get out of each other’s way.

“Traveling,” Louis jokes, when they finally get it sorted.

Liam grins. “Illegal use of legs.”

Louis laughs.

“I’ll, um, I’ll let you know how it goes?” he says as he goes to push the door open. He drags his feet, lingering.

“Please do,” Louis says sweetly. “I wanna hear.”

“I’ll text you,” Liam says.

“Yeah, text me, mate.”

Liam is a little flustered, and it takes him several tries to open the door. Louis watches him in amusement.

“You alright?” he says, bringing his cigarette to his lips as Liam finally gets it open.

“Good!” Liam says, a bit too emphatically. “Good. Yeah, I’ll -- yeah. I’ll -- we’ll talk.”

“Bye,” Louis calls after him.

 

 /

 

 _Walsh is going on vacation a week in March_ , Liam texts Louis.

Louis is home at this point, taking lazy drags off a joint and guiltily trying to find a good porn video in which a dark-eyed, square-jawed masc bloke gets his cock sucked. When he gets this text he jumps as if scalded, feeling like he’s been caught.

 _Are you filling in ?_ Louis texts back. 

_Ya I’m terrified lol_

Louis considers this for a moment. _Why don’t you come over to mine and have a drink and strategize,_ he types, and then turns his attention to his laptop and quickly deletes his browser history.

Liam types for ages and then finally says, _ok sounds good louis. thanks_

 _call me Tommo,_ Louis says, taking a final drag and setting the roach on his table.

 _lol alright. if u insist, tommo,_ Liam types back.

For some reason Louis can’t stop smiling as he sets his phone down.

“You stop that,” he says aloud to himself, sternly.

 

/

 

They end up barely discussing it. Liam recaps the meeting as Louis fetches them a pack of Stellas from the fridge, and then when he returns, says, “I think I’d actually rather not talk about it? It’s just making me more anxious to dwell on it, I dunno.” So Louis orders a few curries for takeaway (“This counts as me buying you dinner,” he sternly informs Liam, who laughs and agrees), and they collapse onto his couch and chat about their lives and then about sports, until they’re each three beers deep.

Louis comes to realize, watching Liam wave his hands around while expressing a great depth and breadth of knowledge about sports, that he really is a journalist at heart. He sees, finally, the reporter that Liam has been this entire time.

His head is so crammed full of stats and names and gossip that he’s stumbling over himself trying to get it all out; it’s endearing. His hair is mussed, and his eyes are appealingly warm with liquor, like they were the other night.

At some point he pauses, glancing at Louis and looking self-conscious. “What?”

“What?” Louis says, realizing with horror that he has no idea what face he was making just now, and quickly wiping his features of any expression.

“Nothing, you were just staring at me funny.”

“No reason,” Louis says. “Concentratin’.”

Liam settles heavily back against the couch, in the way of a drunk person. “I really like working at ITV,” he says sleepily. “I like you lot. It’s a nice thing to have, after a bad break-up like this... I’m glad -- I dunno.”

“I wanted not to like you,” Louis says softly. “I was -- I’m really stubborn, like. And I was so mardy about how you were hired. But that’s on Simon, not you, really. Sorry if I gave you a hard time.”

Liam shrugs. “Sorry if I was defensive,” he says.

“I reckon we’re more alike than I originally thought,” Louis murmurs, and then glances down at his lap and examines his fingernails to avoid eye contact. “I mean, we're different, but -- not so different, like.”

“I think so too,” Liam says, in a warm, low voice.

Louis glances up. Their eyes meet. Louis grows hot all over; deep in his gut and high in his chest. He’s not sure he’s ever felt like that without being touched. He wants to fight it, but it feels good. He feels good.

Liam watches him with curiosity, his eyes so dark and warm.

“D’you play football, at all?” Louis says, his voice coming out higher than he means it to.

“A little,” Liam says. “Why?”

“Want to come maybe join this match me and Niall play in every Sunday? It’s right before you go in. We can walk you over, after…”

“Yeah, alright,” Liam says agreeably.

 

/

 

Harry’s got a meeting with Simon, so he walks to the pitch with them. He and Niall hang back, deep in conversation, as Louis walks ahead, lost in his thoughts.

He finally turns back to them when he hears Niall mutter, “Louis’ boyfriend’s joinin’ our match today...”

“What boyfriend?” Louis snaps, swinging around and beginning to walk backwards so he can look at them.

“Yeah, what boyfriend,” Harry says with curiosity, looking to Niall.

“C’mon,” Niall says, rolling his eyes at the both of them.

“Ohh, Liam?” Harry says, chuckling.

Louis nearly runs into some woman who’s engrossed in her mobile.

“Excuse me!” she says.

“Excuse you,” he replies, and she gapes at him.

“Hooligan,” she calls out as she walks away.

Louis laughs. “No one’s called me a hooligan in like, five years.”

“Liar,” Harry says amiably. “I called you a hooligan last week.”

“He did, I heard this,” Niall confirms.

“No one who was serious, anyway.”

“I like how fast we moved away from the topic of Liam,” Harry says, nudging Niall. “You notice that?”

“Course,” Niall says. “Every time anyone brings it up, he goes deaf.”

Louis stops walking backwards and falls into step beside them, hands jammed in the pockets of his Adidas warmup jacket. “I do not!”

“Boris Johnson called Zayn a hooligan once,” Harry says. “‘Cos he waited in the bushes for him outside his mum’s house to get a quote.”

“Sakes alive, I can’t keep anybody on track, here,” Niall says in exasperation.

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Louis says, catching Niall hard in the ribs with his elbow. Niall winces theatrically. “I can’t take a shine to anyone without wantin’ to fuck them?”

“Oi,” Niall says defensively, “I thought you wanted to fuck ‘im _before_ you took a shine to him.”

“We’re just rousting you,” Harry says. “I mean… he seems straight to me, honestly.”

Louis experiences a disappointment at this that’s so powerful he feels it physically.

“Yeah?” he says, trying to right himself in reality. He tells himself, for the hundredth time, that it isn’t Liam he wants; it’s that he’s lonely, and he needs a bloke with strong hands to set him right, and he needs someone to fawn over him and crave his attention, he needs someone to push him further creatively and inspire him. He’s just getting all these needs mixed up, is all.

Someone will come along soon that will be as good a fit for him as Eleanor was and make him feel like was mental for ever being so confused. He’ll find somebody, and Liam will get a new bird to replace Sophia, and they’ll become great friends and Louis will turn him into the next Patrick Wintour. That’s it. No more, no less.

“He hasn’t flirted with me yet,” Harry says casually.

“Maybe you’re not his type,” Louis challenges.

“Hmm, maybe,” Harry says, grinning and slowing to a stop next to the Tube station stairs they’re passing. “Maybe his type’s a little shorter and shoutier?”

He reaches out and gives Louis’ nipple a twist.

“Maybe fuck off,” Louis tells him, pushing his hand away, but enjoying the attention all the same.

“This is my stop, boys,” Harry says, and starts descending underground. “See you Monday...”

“Bye, lad,” the two of them chorus after him, and begin again to trudge down the streets of London, which are sleepy and gloomy in a certain Sunday morning way.

“You and Harry are gross sometimes, for two people who’re definitely not together,” Niall remarks.

“You know, when you two were flatmates, we fucked on your kitchen table once,” Louis informs him wickedly.

Niall stops in his tracks and squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing. “No, no, take it back, unsay that.”

“On the kitchen table! Where you eat your eggs!” he sings, dancing away down the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding a bloke walking his dog.

 

/

 

Liam’s late, but only because he was initially early and felt like a weirdo loitering around, so he’d run two laps around the outside of the pitch, past a team of primary school girls having a practice and an old man doing yoga.

By the time he comes back around, everyone’s gathered and tugging their shin guards and cleats on. Louis grins at him.

“Morning jog?” he says, bouncing to his feet from where he was seated on the bleachers.

He looks good in football gear. Liam stares at the way his fleece jacket nips in at his waist and then flares toward his hips; he stares doubly hard at the curve of Louis’ arse under his shorts.

He flushes a little. He’s not sure why he's noticing this. He's found blokes attractive before, but never enough to act on it; and this is Louis, who it would be absolutely mad to be attracted to, who he’s still sort of afraid of.

Liam focuses instead on Louis’ twinkling eyes, and the mischievous canary-eating smile.

“Warming up,” he says.

“You must be fit,” Louis says. “Was watching you run. What d’you do, four minute kilometer?”

“Nah, four twenty.”

Louis laughs at this.

“Christ, Tomlinson, are you fifteen still?” says a blonde, ruddy bloke who’s stretching next to Liam. “Hey, I’m Owen, by the way,” he says, holding his hand out.

“Liam,” he replies, shaking it.

“Louis’ been fifteen his entire life,” Niall puts in. “Mornin’, Liam.”

“Hey, Niall.”

“Liam! Name’s Robbie, can you be on our side?” calls a redhead who’s lugging a mesh bag of footballs through the grass. “No homo, but I like your build. And we’re short a forward.”

“I wanted Liam for our team,” Louis complains. “Alright, go on, be the enemy, Payno, we’ll clobber you anyway.”

Liam laughs. “You must be a sight better at football than you are at basketball, if that's true.”

There’s a beat, and then a deafening chorus of _oohs_ , and all the boys fall over themselves taking the piss out of Louis for this. Liam half-expects Louis to be annoyed, but Louis is grinning at him, his face lit up. He looks, if anything, thrilled, albeit in a somewhat sinister way.

“I am, actually,” he says, “but I don’t expect you to just take my word for it.”

“I’m sure you’ll show me,” Liam says, invigorated by something beyond his reckoning, his head buzzing. He and Louis stare into each other’s eyes, their gaze unbroken.

“Oh, I’d love to,” Louis says in a soft voice.

“Alright,” calls Andy. He finishes lacing his cleats and gives Liam a friendly nod, which Liam returns. “Are we done talking trash? Going to play some actual football, now?”

“Please,” says Niall.

 

/

 

Liam has a lot of things on his side; speed, strength and stamina. But his footwork is clumsy, and he’s out of practice with the game, and most importantly, he’s clearly a little afraid of Louis. Louis wrings this slim advantage completely dry over the first half, either rushing to meet him and dancing away with the ball when he gets flustered, or getting him off-balance so Niall can finish the job when he can’t.

By the second half, Louis is tiring, and they're more equally matched. It begins to drizzle, and Louis starts to pull out his dirtier moves.

The first time he trips Liam up, Liam doesn't actually go down. He stumbles, and he loses the ball to Louis, but he stays steady on his feet. After Louis drives upfield, they exchange a glance, and there's a muscle tensing Liam's jaw that wasn't before.

Louis is thrilled at the sight of it. He’s hoping Liam strafes him like he’s a flanker in rugby and leaves him sprawled out, half-dead on the pitch. He hasn’t been hit well in a long time, and there’s something life-affirming and extremely satisfying about having the spit knocked out of you.

At one point Liam gives him a rather spectacular head fake and then goes right instead of left, leaving Louis spinning on his feet. He immediately gambols backward to intercept Liam again, and Liam decides to go through him rather than around him. He gets off a pass to Robbie before they crash onto the pitch together, tangled in each other's sweaty limbs, their faces inches apart.

They exchange stares, breathing hard and grinning with the satisfying violence of it all. Liam's eyes are so dark in the thin light of the afternoon that Louis can barely make out his pupils. There's a bit of chest hair peeking out from the V of his jersey. Liam’s body feels good against his own; they fit together well. Louis is tingling everywhere their skin meets. He's got butterflies in his stomach. He doesn't want to get up.

“Sorry about that, you good?” Liam says.

“Payno,” Louis says with a winsome smile, “if you're going to play dirty, own it.”

“You've been playing dirty this whole time,” Liam points out.

Louis gets a noseful of Liam’s sweat. On Liam, male sweat doesn't smell quite so bad. In fact, he rather likes how Liam smells.

As soon as that thought crosses his mind, it occurs to Louis that this crush may actually be very real. This should be cause for serious alarm, but Liam’s satisfying, warm weight is pinning him against the grass, and their thighs are pressed together, and Liam is examining him with sparrow-bright eyes in a way he really sort of likes.

“And I'll keep playin’ dirty,” Louis whispers throatily, “so you ought to stay on your toes.”

Liam’s smile widens. He looks pleased in a certain way: like he's finally in on the joke.

Their reverie is broken by Niall coughing loudly from a few feet away.

Liam bounces to his feet and pulls Louis to his feet: not taking his hand, but grabbing him hard by the bicep and hoisting him up like he's a sack of laundry. Louis is dizzied by how strong his grip is. He goes into a sort of a trance, gazing at Liam openly.

“Sorry, did I hurt you there?” Liam says, glancing at him.

“Hmm? What?” Louis says intelligently.

“Did I twist your arm?”

“Me arm’s just fine,” he demurs.

“While you girls were snogging, I scored,” Robbie informs them. “Nice distraction tactics, Liam.”

Liam laughs awkwardly. “We were just having a bit of trash talk.”

“Looked like a bit of pillow talk,” Robbie says, laughing, and takes the ball up for the kickoff.

Liam and Louis exchange a glance so loaded that Louis’ breath gets caught in his chest.

“Go on, then,” Louis says, looking away and getting back into defender position.

Liam jogs away, and Louis mentally curses himself.

But he knows now that he's not insane, he's not an idiot; there is something there between them. It just remains to be seen if the something will ever climb up to the surface.

Liam turns around and glances at Louis again, like he's read his mind. Louis stares at him, then flashes his teeth in a smile.

Liam smiles back, almost sort of shyly, and faces front again.

 

/

 

Louis’ team wins by one. He’s prepared to lord it over Liam, but when they’re walking off the pitch, Liam gets close to him, touches him on the hip and whispers in his ear, “You’re right, you’re pretty good at this,” and then he’s rendered unusually speechless.

Liam showers quickly before work in the cramped locker room of the fieldhouse. Niall and Louis change, and then hang around on the benches waiting for him.

“You could've showered,” Niall points out. Louis played a lot harder than he did; he’s still damp with sweat.

Louis shakes his head. “I'll take one at home.”

He’s desperate to have a wank, is the thing. Ever since Liam crashed into him he's been reliving it in vivid color. Liam's weight on top of him, the smell of him, the dig of his strong fingers into Louis’ bicep. He needs to go home, jump on the shower and get his hands on himself.

He might even use the vibrator he has, which he's usually loathe to do. It was Harry who bought him it: Harry the shagging connoisseur, who was always trying to get him to try out heated lubes and bizarro positions and things like anal beads.

“Anyone who likes getting fucked as much as you do ought to have one,” he'd said conversationally.

“I like getting fucked by a human cock,” Louis rejoindered. “One attached to a bloke.”

“But… like... this _vibrates_ ,” Harry said, his brow knit in confusion, and then Louis had asked him if he liked vibrators more than Louis’ cock, which had resulted in a small row and mutual sulky silence.

Liam comes out of the stall in his knickers, toweling his hair. Louis glances at Niall, to save himself from looking at Liam. Niall is staring at his mobile.

“This isn't good,” he mutters.

A hit of adrenaline surges through Louis. “News?”

Liam looks up from getting his trousers on and glances between them.

“Nah, I wish,” Niall says. “It's Harry explainin’ what went on in his meeting. Our friend at BBC tipped us off that Zayn’s scooped his grifter story.”

Louis sighs. “Zayn?”

“Yeah,” Niall mutters, pocketing his phone. “Let's go over there, he didn't say much in the text.”

Liam heaves his bag over his shoulder. He has the air of someone who feels guilty by association.

“That happens, though,” he says. “I mean… we're rival networks, that happens all the time. It isn’t sinister.”

“Right, but it's _Zayn_ ,” Louis says.

Niall heaves his bag onto his shoulder; the strap, apparently, has had too much and collapses, sending it tumbling back to the floor.

Niall looks at the bag with a very Irish sort of disappointment. “Go fuck yourself,” he says to it conversationally.

“Hang on, I can fix that,” Liam says, kneeling and taking the two ends of the strap together.

They watch in surprise as he does a complicated-looking knot with ease. He glances up at them.

“I was in the Scouts for a while,” he says, sheepishly.

Louis gets that warm tingling in his stomach again. It terrifies him how endeared he is by this.

“Oh, our man’s a _Scout,”_ Niall says cheerfully, and when Liam looks back down, elbows Louis rather hard. Louis elbows him back.

 

/

 

Liam walks behind them as they head to the station. He listens to Niall and Louis talk, anxious over the vitriol in their voices. He really, really doesn't want to take sides here.

He watches Louis, sort of furtively. There's just something about him that draws Liam’s eye. He gestures as he walks, his sweaty fringe mostly dried and swept low across his forehead, his eyes bright.

Liam really likes the sound of his voice. Whenever they're in the newsroom together, he can hear Louis coming from a mile away. He's constantly bantering with people, or chirping instructions to someone, or singing to himself. Liam would find that quality annoying in most anyone else, but in Louis it's become downright charming. He smiles to himself when he hears Louis enter the room; he's always half-hoping Louis will say something to him.

And he nearly always does, even if it's just “Alright, Payno?” and a sunny smile. He seems to want Liam's attention too, and Liam is more than happy to give it to him.

“‘E’s just got such little regard for us,” Louis is saying. “No sense of loyalty or even, like, a bit of fuckin’ social graces, yeah?”

Niall shakes his head. “He’s just lashin’ out,” he says quietly. “‘Cos we all shunned him, after.”

“Well, yeah! And ‘e fuckin’ well deserved it! And you know what, ‘e didn’t want to hang wiv us anymore, anyway!”

Liam trails further behind them on the sidewalk, half-hoping they’ll forget he’s there, but then Louis wheels around on him.

“How’d you meet Zayn?” he says, sounding more curious than peeved, but Liam squares his shoulders anyway.

“Uni,” he says, squinting down the road, past Louis.

“Was ‘e ever a disloyal arse?”

“No, he was a good kid,” Liam says. “We were on the same floor our residence hall, all of us up there got pretty tight. Zayn was always hanging out in me and John’s room… he used to help me a lot with my coursework. I dunno, I, um…” He hesitates. “I didn’t really think I ought to be there, most days. Thought I should have just taken my A levels and gone on to whatever job I could find… He was convinced I was smarter than that. So we kept in touch, stayed Facebook friends, always gave each other career advice...”

Louis’ face falls. He looks guilty. They all simultaneously stop walking.

Liam and Louis gaze at each other, and Niall glances between them.

“Look, we don’t _hate_ Zayn,” Niall says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s just -- t’ way he left, and the thing with Perrie -- it was really, like, cruel. It’s easier to talk like this about him.”

“He can be like that, I know he can,” Liam says, but adds plaintively, “I just -- I think shunning him probably made it even worse.”

Louis’ jaw tenses.

“Probably it did,” he says softly.

Liam’s heart is thudding high in his chest with anxiety. He doesn’t like thinking of how precarious things are -- in the wake of losing Sophia and moving to a brand-new place, his relative success at work has felt like a lifeline tossed into the cold water that was rising around him. He doesn’t want to jeopardize it. But he can’t help defending Zayn, mostly because it’s clear no one else is going to.

“We’re past that, now,” Niall says. “Too late to fix things. Just got to see Harry’s reporting don’t go t’ waste.”

They continue on.

“We don’t care that you’re friends with him, Liam,” Louis says quietly. “Your insight helps, is all.”

“I could talk to him,” Liam offers, wanting very badly to do something nice for Louis, to prove himself.

“No, no,” Louis assures him. “No, we aren’t there yet, don’t worry.”

 

*

 

“It’s over,” Harry tells them, as soon as the four of them squirrel away in the conference room for a private chat. “He’s -- I mean, he’s got _everything._ Everything I had exclusively, my court docs, all of it. Biggest thing is he got the bloke’s brother, and now the brother won’t talk to me, because he thinks the Beeb is more glamorous.”

Harry gently kicks a chair in anger. It falls over, and he immediately rights it, looking apologetic.

Louis drums his finger on the conference table. “What if we rush it, like?”

“Rush it?” Harry says, glancing up at him. “I dunno. I don’t think I can turn this around that fast. I don't have the brother… and I’ve got more reporting to do.”

Impatience spikes in Louis. “Like what?”

“Like -- well, I’m trying to meet this woman on the Public Accounts Committee --”

“Oh, Harry, c’mon, lad,” Niall says sympathetically. “Just scrap that. You know Zayn’s not waitin’ around for some bird at Public Accounts.”

“I want to confirm some figures!”

Liam clears his throat, and their heads all snap in his direction.

“Um,” he says awkwardly. “Is it possible -- d’you think, like, maybe Zayn didn’t do this on purpose?”

Harry leans his hip against the table, running a hand through his hair. “No. No chance.”

“Why?”

“‘Cos what he did was -- he watches my fuckin’ reporting like a hawk, I know he does, and he snooped around, took my legwork and ran with it. And as for finding the brother, or the documents, they've got resources at the Beeb we just don't have. Things that took me a week took him days. And then he sweet-talked him out of talking to us exclusively, he used their stature against me. That's what makes me just...”

Harry shakes his head, his nostrils flaring.

Liam moves for the door. “I'm going to get some tea,” he says. “Anyone else want tea?”

Louis is the only one to nod.

“What in?”

“Milk, no sugar.”

The door shuts behind Liam, and Harry folds his arms. Niall glances between them, seeming anxious.

“I dunno what we can do, here,” Louis says, a little exasperated.

The door opens again and they all jump. It's just Perrie, looking concerned.

“Oi,” she says. “What's all the gloom in here about?”

The three of them exchange awkward glances.

Perrie laughs. “It's got to do with Zayn, has it?”

“Why d’you say that?” Harry says, pulling a chair out and collapsing coltishly into it.

“You've all got your Zayn faces on.”

“What's my Zayn face?” Louis says.

“Constipation,” Perrie says, tossing her hair over her shoulders. Louis amiably gives her the finger. “So what's he done?”

“Scooped Harry’s conman teacher story,” Niall says.

Perrie makes a face. “Fun.”

“I'm going to pull an all-nighter,” Harry says. “I'm pushing the final package tomorrow.”

“Oh, Harold, I dunno if I have room for you,” Louis says. “What if something breaks? And Boris is havin’ a Leave presser tomorrow, I can’t budge that.”

“What else can you move?” Harry says, his arms folded tightly.

“Move the package I did with Leigh Anne,” Perrie says quietly. “The restaurant one. It can wait a day, or it can work as a reader?”

“Can do,” Louis agrees. “If you’re alright with that.”

“I am.”

Harry’s jaw is still tight, but he seems relieved, at least for the moment. He’s staring Louis down. Niall glances between them, then takes Perrie by the arm and leads her out, whispering something to her.

Louis sighs. “It's just -- when I ran your story, I wanted it to lead our A block. And you realize I can't do that tomorrow. This Leave conference has got to be our top story.”

“Doesn't _have_ to be.”

“Harry --”

“You’re so convinced Leave’s going to happen, you're letting it cloud your news judgment,” Harry says hotly. He seems to regret it immediately, and bites his lip.

Louis smiles tensely. “You know I hope I'm wrong about that, but the fact is that the vote’s news either way.”

“If you move me to Tuesday, Zayn _will_ scoop us.”

“I know, mate. So… Monday it is, then. Second up in the lineup. I'll grab Nick and tell him to start pushing the adverts hard.”

“Thanks,” Harry says softly.

They exchange an apologetic look, once again fond of each other in the aftermath of their little argument. They fight a lot, but never for very long.

Harry’s smile fades after a moment, though, and he looks despondent.

“I’m really angry at him,” he says, sounding more annoyed than Louis hardly ever hears him be.

“I’m angrier,” Louis says, in a weak attempt at a joke.

Harry nods. “But I miss him, too.”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek.

“Won't say I miss him more,” he mutters.

“But you do.”

Louis lets out a breath of a laugh. “But I do.”

 

/

 

Liam has forgotten where the room with the Keurig is, so he wanders in the back of the building, peering down hallways.

Nick comes up behind him and jabs him in his sides. Liam jumps, startled.

“Hey,” Nick says, laughing. “You looking for something?”

“Tea?”

Nick takes him by the shoulders and steers him. Liam allows himself to be steered. He’s taken to a little shotgun-style break room across the hall from the green room, with Keurigs aplenty.

“Ta-da,” Nick says. “Commit to memory where this is, would you?”

Liam thanks him and starts making tea; Nick lingers in the doorway, arms folded, watching him.

“What's up?” Liam says, turning to him.

Nick smiles and says nothing.

“Come on,” Liam says genially. “D’you need to give me a hard time?”

Nick lets out a scoff and shifts his weight. “This is a hard time?”

“You know, Louis warned me about you.”

Nick laughs. “I bet he did.”

“Told me not to get sucked in, ‘cos you like to talk in circles and trip people up.”

“That almost sounds like a compliment,” Nick says. “Like I'm quick-witted. He'd never say that to my face.”

“Have you two got some kind of history?” Liam takes his tea and sets it to the side. “And, sidebar, do you know what tea he likes?”

“Do an English Breakfast. Um, not really, just a bit of sword fighting, cock swinging.” Nick sounds bored. “We get territorial over Harry, mostly.”

Liam feels suddenly untethered. A strange buzz develops behind his eyes and in his gut.

“Wait… Like, as friends?” he says slowly.

Nick laughs again. “Come on, Liam, you're not that thick.”

He bristles. “I'm not thick at all!”

“Then you know what I mean. Him and Harry used to be an item.”

The buzz worsens.

“Doesn't Louis have a few ex-girlfriends? He mentioned at least one to me,” Liam says.

“Louis has plenty of exes,” Nick says. “Including Harold. He's a what d’you call them -- a serial monogamist.”

The English Breakfast has finished pissing out of the Keurig, but Liam remains standing there, not sure what to say. Sophia said nearly the exact same thing to him once: _You're a serial monogamist, it's like you don't know how to not be in a relationship._

“You look shook up,” Nick comments. “You can't be surprised to hear that Louis is for blokes? Most people just assume that’s the case.”

“Maybe I am,” Liam says, eyes cast down, adding milk to Louis’ tea. He isn't sure what he's feeling, but he wants to go feel it alone, away from Nick’s needling.

Nick observes him with curiosity as he fixes his own cup.

“Do _you_ like blokes at all?” he says.

The hair on the back of Liam’s neck raises, and he flushes.

“None of your business,” he immediately replies.

“Because you've sort of got gay face, no offense intended. And this is a very queer line of work, as I'm sure you know.”

“Nick,” Liam snaps, taking the cups in his hands. “I said it's none of your business.”

“Have you got a thing for Louis? You two are always hanging around each other lately, and he's always pulling your pigtails...”

Liam, experiencing a surge of terror, gently pushes past Nick in the doorway, bumping his shoulder. “Bye,” he hollers.

“No, it's cute!” Nick shouts back. “Surprisingly innocent, for Tommo!”

Liam prays no one heard this as he makes his way back through the newsroom and toward the conference room.

Harry and Louis are still in there, talking quietly. They're sitting awfully close to each other, only half-obscured by the blinds over the glass. Liam hovers outside the door for a moment.

He feels strange knowing they're exes. He's got a bit of a nauseous worry that he's being homophobic, but he had a gay flatmate before he moved in with Danielle, and he never had this unsettled and prickly feeling watching Michael canoodle the blokes he brought home -- this prickly feeling he has now, watching Harry and Louis having a conversation he can't hear.

Liam knocks, then, because he feels like a duffer just standing there.

Louis glances up and smiles, then beckons him in. Liam sets Louis’ tea in front of him. He leans back against the wall, sipping his own.

“Sit,” Louis says. Harry glances up at him.

“I’m alright standing,” Liam tries, but Louis has a specific glint in his eyes. He pulls a chair over and sits.

Harry clears his throat. “I just want to say sorry,” he says. “I don’t want to put you on the spot for being friends with him. And I don’t want you to think we don’t normally cooperate with our competitors, and have a healthy respect for them... This is just -- it’s been difficult for us.”

Liam nods. “You don’t have to apologize to me,” he assures him. “I get it. I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you can’t complain about him with me around.”

Harry seems mollified by this, and smiles, flashing a dimple.

“Beautiful,” Louis says, clapping Liam on the shoulder. “Cheers. Look at all this conflict resolution.”

“Wasn’t much conflict to begin with,” Harry says, amused.

“Don’t worry about me leaking, either,” Liam assures the both of them. “I don’t talk to him about what we do here. We don’t shop talk. I’m invested in this station, I swear.”

Harry looks hard into his eyes, and gives him a genuine look. His stare has a hypnotic quality; Liam gets the urge to blink.

“I believe you,” he says. “You know why?”

“Why?”

“‘Cos you’ve only been here a month, and you know the names of all the security guards. And you say hi to them every day.”

“You noticed that?”

“It is actually my job to notice things, Liam,” Harry says, looking amused at him.

He gets up, then, in that languorous way of his. They both watch him. He stretches, and his back cracks.

“I’m going to get to work,” Harry says, yawning. “See how much I can get done before tomorrow.”

“Alright, don’t overexert yourself,” Louis calls after him as he goes. He laughs and shakes his head.

When the door shuts behind him, Louis sips his tea and turns to Liam.

“So,” he says.

Liam begins to grow nervy, like he often does around Louis. “So,” he repeats.

Louis drums his fingers on the table.

“I didn’t want to say this in front of Harry,” he says, “because he gets neurotic, but I don’t like this at all. I don’t like the precedent he’s settin’.”

“Zayn, you mean?”

Louis smiles. “Right. Sorry. He’s like our Macbeth, never call him by name.”

Liam wonders briefly if Louis was ever a theater kid, because he's got the temperament, and that’s a very theater kid thing to say.

Louis sighs and runs his hands through his hair. It falls appealingly across his forehead.

“I don’t want him to keep doing this to Harry,” Louis mutters. “I feel like -- I dunno. He was always a bit insecure about Harry, he wasn’t as confident in how he comes off, he always felt like Harry had this charm and ease that made the on-camera bit so simple for him. And it isn’t like I can’t relate. But Zayn’s good -- you know.”

Liam nods. “He’s talented, absolutely.”

“I just feel like he’s sort of drowning at the Beeb, it’s like this super-competitive atmosphere, and he’s just… You’d know better than I would.”

“Honestly, not really. He doesn’t open up about that.”

“The reason Harry’s reporting is good is because he works really fucking hard,” Louis says. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he does.

“This does happen, like,” Liam says softly. “You know that as well as anyone... story breaks, and reporters turn up the key elements of it around the same time… It’s like a scavenger hunt. And there’s already been plenty in print about this story. I’ve seen it. No one's got the brother, but...”

Louis glances up at him. “You’ve gotten into print?”

Liam nods. “I’ve started, lately. I got a paper subscription to the Times. And, um, one to the Standard, as well.”

Louis gets a warm look, and gazes at Liam in an intense way. It’s almost too much; Liam wants him to stop, but he also wants it to go on for as long as possible.

“Well, good,” Louis says, finally.

Liam taps the flat of his hand on the table. “Listen,” he says. “I can talk to Zayn, if you like. If that’s something you want.”

He silently begs for Louis to give him this chance, to let him be noble and magnanimous, to smooth things over. He likes to smooth things over.

“And say what?” Louis says.

“Just have a chat with him.”

Louis’ smile grows.

“You’re like a Yank, sometimes,” he says playfully. “Like one of those cowboys or something.”

“I’m a _cowboy_? If anyone's a cowboy around here it's you.”

“No, just with these stoic pronouncements of yours,” Louis says, and then goes into an imitation of Liam’s deeper voice. “ _Just have a chat with him.._.”

“I meant it!” Liam exclaims, laughing. “That’s all I’d do. Just a civil discussion between friends.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Louis says, “if you think you can get something accomplished. If not, if it’ll just mess with things between you, don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t think Zayn’s looking to mess with things between us,” Liam says. “I think he’s a bit hard-up for good friends, right now.”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek and looks down, bouncing his leg. His arms are folded tight across his chest.

“Sorry,” Liam says, with immediate regret. “That wasn’t an indictment...”

“No, it’s the truth,” Louis mutters. “But the truth is sort of its own indictment, sometimes, right?”

“Shit. That’s deep.”

Louis looks up again, seeming uncharacteristically sheepish. “Talk as much as I do, something’s bound to sound good. Um… I’ve got to go find Nick,” he says, standing.

“Oh, I just saw him,” Liam says, and then gets a little flustered upon remembering their conversation. “He was… I dunno. Wandering.”

Louis grins at him. “You got Nicked, did you? He gets bored on his lunch hour, goes around looking for targets.”

“I’m a target?” Liam challenges good-naturedly.

“By virtue of being the new bloke, yeah. But I’ve got dibs on busting your balls, so when I find him, I’ll tell him to piss off.”

He says this in a tender way that makes Liam even more flustered.

“Alright, good luck with all that,” Liam says, getting to his feet as well and pulling open the door. “I’ve got to get my face on.”

“Have a good show,” Louis tells him as they part ways.

 

/

 

Louis goes home at three and smokes copious amounts of weed to soothe his football-worn muscles, then passes out on the couch almost immediately.

He dreams fitfully at first, and then a snippet of a dream grows more vivid and intense as his body responds to it.

It’s Liam. They’re only snogging at first, but then they fall back against a bed. Liam’s warm weight is on top of him, pinning him to the mattress; Liam’s strong hands are wrapped around his wrists, at first, holding them together. And then one of those hands has fingers inside of him, rubbing hard against his prostate as Liam kisses him.

He feels the sensation blooming inside of him as if it were real. It’s so powerful he thinks it _is_ real, until he wakes up face-down on his sofa with his hand in his joggers, wrapped around his hard and leaking cock.

Louis staggers blearily into the bedroom and opens the drawer where he keeps lube, condoms, weed and a few of the toys Harry gave him. He finds the vibrator and holds it in his hands, trying not to think too much about what he’s doing.

“You’re bein’ crazy,” he says aloud to himself, his voice raspy with sleep. He lays back against his bed and begins to fuck himself open with lubey fingers.

Louis closes his eyes. It feels good, although not nearly as good as someone else doing it. He aches; he can’t really deny anymore that it’s Liam he’s aching for.

He rubs at himself thinking of Liam, and then slides the vibrator into himself thinking of Liam. He writhes and grips at the sheets and gasps thinking of Liam, stroking his own cock and thinking of being fucked by Liam, by the length and girth of him. And he thinks about Liam’s full lips around his own cock, or on his arse. Louis imagines his come dribbling out of Liam’s reddened mouth, imagines their hands on each other.

But mostly he thinks rapturously of Liam penetrating him, holding him down and splitting him open. He moans aloud in the quiet of his flat. He comes having barely touched himself, and shudders with aftershocks for a moment before reaching down, shutting the vibe off and sliding it out.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis breathes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit.”


	7. Chapter 7

Liam’s first day filling in for Walsh is a dreary Tuesday. The sky dumps rain miserably all day, late into the afternoon. Louis forgets his umbrella and has to cover his head with a copy of the _Sun_ on his way in.

Today is an easy news day. Yesterday was more hectic. Their intrepid assignment editor Ben forgot to get credentials for the Boris presser, so Lily and Rob had barely gotten in, then Lily chewed out a bobby so badly that she nearly got them thrown out. And Harry had run around all day like a madman, avoiding Louis so he didn't have to be honest about how much his story came right down to the wire.

Louis didn't harangue him about it, just frantically drank coffee and chainsmoked as the six crept closer and closer. The package finally came in at five fifty-nine. In the editing bay behind the control room, he could hear Niall swearing a very creative blue streak as he tried to shove it into the show before Louis cued to it.

 _Harold I love you but never do that to me again,_ he'd texted him on his way out of the control room. Harry sent him the grimace emoji and a heart.

But it got in, and even without the interview with the brother, it was as sharp and deeply reported as Louis expected. They beat Zayn to the punch, which is all that matters.

Before the Tuesday six, Louis meets with Sharon when they both come out the side door to have a smoke. The rain has stopped, and the sun is peeping at them tentatively.

“Can you carry Liam a bit, tonight?” he says.

“Of course, love,” she says. “That's what I assumed I was meant to do.”

“He's antsy,” Louis says, ashing his cigarette. “Understandably.”

“Is he in yet?”

“He's on his way.”

Sharon eyes him. “He's replacing Walsh, isn't he? For good?"

Louis nods. “I reckon that's what Simon wants.”

“Poor kid. That's a lot of pressure. He's so young.”

“Simon likes us young,” Louis intones darkly.

“And he came up from sports, too…”

“Even better. He hasn’t got all the accumulated bad habits.”

“He needs to get more confident,” Sharon says. “He's got the look and the chops, he's just so loathe to ruffle any feathers, I can tell. He wants to be universally liked. You know, Walsh and I don't just read the news, we sit down with the bigwigs and take them to task.”

“I know.”

“Can he do that, your boy?”

“Ain't _my_ boy,” Louis says affably. “He'll get there.”

“Are you getting him there?”

“Sort of. Yeah.”

She eyes him. “ _You_ could’ve been a reporter, you know.”

Louis smiles tersely. “Nah.”

“You've got the personality. The bollocks, certainly.”

He snorts.

She tilts her head at him, her red hair gleaming in the sun.

“I appreciate it,” Louis says. “But you haven't got to gas me up, here.”

“Oh, love, I'm not.” She pats him on the shoulder then moves to the door, dropping her cigarette in the wall-mounted ashtray. “But I suppose it worked out for the best. I think you like running things behind the scenes, don't you?”

Louis grows a little sad when she says this, but he easily steels himself against it. It's a familiar wound she's picking at.

“I do,” he says. “I dunno, sometimes I wonder what might’ve been. But… I know myself, I know what suits me. I'd rather be the voice in their ear. You know.” He drops his cig, too, and grinds it under his heel. “Support.”

Sharon gives him a sympathetic smile. “See you back in there,” she says, and leaves him to his thoughts.

 

/

 

Simon rings Louis as soon as he's back at his desk.

“I hear we beat the Beeb to the teacher story,” he says. “Nice work.”

“The story you hated?” Louis says quietly, nestling the receiver against his shoulder so he can type as he talks.

“Yeah, I may have been hasty to judge it. Paul tells me it did well, and Jesy said the same on the web end. So, nice job.”

“It’s Harry you ought to tell, mate,” Louis says, bringing up the rundown on his computer.

“I did. I just got off the phone with him.”

“Oh, alright then. Thanks.”

“It was your judgment that pushed it forward, I expect.”

“No, moving it up was Harry’s idea,” Louis says, growing distracted as he moves some elements around.

Niall, who sits next to him, leans into his line of vision and mouths _what's up?_ Louis shakes his head and mouths _Simon_. Niall makes the _Peanuts_ wah-wah noises and Louis socks him in the arm, laughing silently.

“You ought to take credit for smart things your subordinates do,” Simon says, sounding amused.

“Please, the reporters ain't my subordinates.”

“Technically they are.”

“I don't think of it like that. We're all a team down here.”

“Right, whatever. Well, good judgment won ought, no matter whose idea it originally was. So for that I want to say thank you. I always like to beat the Beeb to things, peel off a bit of their audience.”

“Brick by brick,” Louis says, sing-songy.

“Brick by brick, right. Alright, get back to work, will you?”

“Been working through this entire conversation, Simon.”

Simon laughs. “Of course you have.”

 

/

 

Louis goes looking for Liam in the hallways at five and comes across Lou, who seems relieved to see him.

“Liam’s losing the plot,” she says. “Or near to it, anyway. I got as far as plugging the blow dryer in and he said something about how many people are going to see him and then started breathing all fast.”

Louis laughs. “Did you tell him we’re down to about one point eight mil on Tuesdays? The Beeb is killing us, it's humiliating.”

“That's still nearly two million people,” Lou whispers to him as she leads him back to the dressing room. “Sports for Channel Four, and then our weekend afternoon show? He's used to a few hundred thousand. I reckon he's got a bit of stage fright.”

“I'll talk to him,” Louis assures her, and he opens the door.

Liam is sitting at the vanity mirror, looking handsome despite how pancaked his face is with foundation. He glances at Louis in the mirror.

He must have gotten his hair done earlier; it's shorter with some subtle caramel highlights, and he had his eyebrows waxed. He's closely shaven, too. Louis stares at the stubble on his cheeks as he draws nearer to him.

“Bit of performance anxiety?” he says, clapping him on the shoulders and leaning down so their faces are side by side in the mirror. Liam laughs.

“I can't breathe properly,” he admits. “I never get like this, I swear. I love an audience.”

“It's a bigger audience than you're used to, but it's all the same, innit? Desk, camera, lights, prompter…”

Liam smells like hairspray, and under that, nice cologne. Louis draws back slightly and studies him. Whoever shaved him nicked him on his throat, a little red mark that stands out in the dark stubble.

He realizes that Liam is studying him right back.

“D’you have a chest piece?” Liam says, his eyes dipping below Louis’ collarbones. “I didn't notice before.”

Louis’ hand goes to his chest, like he's verifying it's still there. He's wearing a scoop neck today. “Aye, yeah.”

“What's it say?”

Louis tugs his collar down so he can see for himself. “ _It is what it is_.”

Liam smiles. “I like that,” he says, in that warm way of his.

Louis lets go of his shirt, duly flattered.

“I wish I could get more tats… it's just they've all got to be hidden for work, so you run out of room right quick.”

“Right,” Louis says with a grin. “You're on the wrong side of the camera to have them.”

“I've got a few anyway,” Liam says, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. Louis doesn't dare allow himself to think Liam is flirting.

“Nowhere I'd have seen?”

“Well, it's been cold since I got here. One’s on my shoulder.”

“I'd like to see that.”

Liam obediently takes his jacket off, then unbuttons his dress shirt. He's sweating into his undershirt with nerves.

The tattoo is a feather that covers the top of his bicep and curves across his shoulder.

“I like it,” Louis says softly.

Liam looks a little bashful. “I've got some hieroglyphs on my thigh.”

“Sick,” Louis says, impressed, trying not to think too hard about Liam's thighs.

Liam can't hide his smile at this. Louis smiles back, reflexively. He likes how Liam’s eyes crinkle.

“So, we alright to go on tonight?” he ventures.

Liam's face falls and he inhales. “I'll be fine,” he says. “I'm always fine. I overthink it. It's just --” he hesitates. “Filling in for Walsh is one thing, but… I don't think I can take over for him long-term. I’m not qualified. It's silly to even think I am.”

Louis parks his arse on the makeup table, since it's low enough, and crosses his legs. He doesn't respond yet, because he feels like Liam's got more to say and will volunteer it if he waits. He watches him expectantly.

Liam goes quiet as he's putting his shirt back on, but when he's trying to get his arm through his jacket sleeve, he says, “Sophia came by mine today.”

“Ohh,” Louis says sympathetically. “Alright, I think I get it. You’re psyched out.”

“I guess. I just wasn't expecting to see her,” Liam mutters. “And she was so… I dunno, relaxed. Like it didn't even hurt her to see me. She just came by to pick up some of her things, but I've been out of my head all day now.”

“I get it, mate. I do.”

Liam makes eye contact. He looks vulnerable, so Louis takes a breath and makes himself vulnerable too.

“Eleanor,” he says. “I think I told you about her a little, when you came over.”

Liam nods to confirm.

“We dated in uni, and then we linked up again years later.” Right after he broke up with Harry, he doesn't say. “And it ended again, after like, not even half a year. She got a new man, straight away. And it shouldn't have bothered me, ‘cos I was the one who wanted to break up. But it stung, I suppose. I felt like…”

He searches for the right word.

“Like I didn’t fit into her life plan,” he finally admits. “She got with this posh bloke who works at ‘er marketing firm with her. Says all the right shit, dresses dull, acts dull. Exactly like the guys she dated after we broke up the first time. ‘S’like, why even bother giving me another go?”

“Exactly,” Liam says, nodding. “Like why -- if I’m not the one for you, what was it all for? Just marking time?”

“Something like that.”

“I don't get that at all.”

Louis shrugs.

“Think of it this way,” he says, “you've got one less thing to worry about. More time to focus on work.”

Liam barks out a laugh. “I dunno if I'm enough of a career maniac yet, to quite see it that way.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it,” Louis jokes.

“It's shit, though,” Liam says, glancing up at him with a puppy-dog sadness. “Just, like, those first few weeks of sleeping alone. You know?”

Louis’ heart squeezes in his chest like a fist. He thinks about how he’s perfectly willing to fill Liam's empty bed; he’d like to sleep beside him, in those arms, against that chest. Have the hieroglyphs pressed to the backs of his own thighs.

These are all tremendously bad thoughts to have. Being attracted to someone is one thing, that's passing, that's mammalian. But he really sort of _likes_ Liam, is the thing.

“I know,” Louis says softly. “It's hard, when you've gotten used to having somebody. I, um…” he laughs. “Sometimes, those first few weeks, I pretend I’m traveling for work. Like, that I’m in a hotel.”

Liam laughs. “Does that work?”

“Sort of,” Louis says. He pauses. “I really hate sleeping alone, too.”

They look at each other. Louis breaks eye contact and glances down.

“You're confident with me being your anchor?” Liam murmurs.

Louis stands and puts his hands on Liam's shoulders. Liam looks up at him.

“I trust you,” Louis says, his voice deepened with sincerity. “I spent like a half hour today watchin’ your saved shows. You’re good, you’ve gotten more confident, alright?”

“I’m not Walsh,” Liam says.

“No, but Walsh has decades of experience on you. It ain’t fair to compare, so don’t.”

Liam sighs. “That's true. Fuck. No, you're right.”

Louis squeezes his shoulder, then lets go fast. “I am right, mate. I’m always right. You work on my show, you’ll come to find that’s true.”

Liam smiles. “And you’ll be in my ear.”

“I’ll be in your ear,” Louis confirms happily, hands on his hips. “Every second of the entire broadcast. Anything you need, I’m there.”

“Okay,” Liam says, inhaling and then quickly exhaling. “I’m good to go. Tell Lou I’m sorry, and she can come back in.”

“No apologies necessary,” Louis says, as he moves for the door. “Happens to the best of us.”

 

/

 

“Three… two… one,” Louis whispers, as Olly is cueing out the music.

“ITV London News at six o’clock. This is Sharon Osbourne, good evening.”

“And I'm Liam Payne, in tonight for Louis Walsh.”

Liam looks good. There's a faint hesitancy in his bassy voice, but it's the sort of thing only Louis would hear with his pricked and practiced ears. He stands up, close to the monitors, squinting at him. His earpiece is firmly nestled in his ear.

“Police are asking for assistance today after a string of robberies on Orpington High Street have them stumped. The robberies appear to have been committed by suspects of varying heights and ethnicities, but the method was the same in each case,” Sharon reads off.

Liam watches her while she's talking. Louis prefers to have both of his anchors with eyes on the prompter, so they transition more smoothly.

Sure enough, Liam stumbles a bit picking up her cue, and it's obvious this shakes his confidence.

“Um, that method was to -- to distract the target by appearing to be breaking into their car, and then have the other robber come ‘round behind the victim and snatch their bag. Our Leigh Anne Pinnock is coming to us live with the latest, from the Met. Leigh?”

Olly cuts to Leigh Anne.

“Really quick, Payno,” Louis whispers, “don't say ‘round, say around, we call her Leigh Anne, not Leigh, and don't look at Sharon when she talks, give her glances but keep eyes on the prompter. Otherwise, great job, mate.”

As Leigh Anne talks, Liam gives a quick nod into the camera and mouths _roger_.

“Does he look sweaty to you?” Olly says aloud.

Calvin, on floor camera, pans to Liam and gives them a tight zoom on his face. “Forehead, yeah,” he says in their ears.

“Oli, do him,” Louis says urgently. “Leigh, stretch a bit, please.”

Leigh Anne rambles on about the Met’s other tips for theft prevention while Oli runs up to the booth and frantically dabs Liam’s face with a makeup sponge, then bolts backward.

“Liam, deep breath, shoulders down,” Sharon whispers.

Liam obliges. He looks a bit frazzled. Louis can't blame him.

“Thank you, Leigh Anne,” Sharon says as they toss back to her. “Officials say this spring is on track to be one of the worst seasons for pollen in years. What can you do to keep allergies in check? We join Ellie Goulding in the weather center with the latest tips from the NHS.”

The rest of the show is benign. Liam only has two more stumbles, and after the first minute or two had stopped sweating entirely, like he's got some supernatural control over his pores.

The only problem is that Louis, standing next to the monitor, observing his every gesture and listening doggedly to his every change in inflection, can feel how the joy went out of this show for him within the first few minutes. He stopped having fun with it, which is a bad sign.

 

*

 

Louis finds him in the dressing room in his briefs and sock feet, loosening his tie and shrugging off his jacket.

“Hey,” he says, coming into the room, stepping into Liam’s line of sight. Liam glances up and gently takes him by the shoulders, moving him out of the way so he can hang his tie up on the rack.

“You did really well, for your first go at primetime,” Louis says to his back. “It’s intimidating.”

Liam sighs and turns. “I didn't,” he says. “I was sort of a mess. It's alright, mate.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt. He's got a very nice, sculpted chest. His abs aren't half bad, either. Louis’ eyes trail down to the cock in his briefs.

His eyes snap back up to Liam’s face, his heart pounding.

“You weren't a _mess_ ,” he exclaims. “You were fine! You had a few minor mistakes. Just best practices workflow shite, every station is different, you couldn't know those things about my show until you did it with me. Did -- did my show with me.”

“Louis,” Liam says, smiling tensely at him, “it’s fine. You don't have to fluff my ego.”

“I'm not! I'm being truthful!”

“I was a sweaty mess.”

“Everyone sweats their first time! A million and a half people were watching!”

Liam blanches at this reminder. He's now fully undressed, in just his boxers and socks. Louis stares hard into his face so he doesn't look down.

“I just want to get out of here and get a drink,” he says. “I'll watch the tape later, I'm sure it isn't as bad as I think, I just feel like an idiot right now and I want to get out of here.”

“Liam…”

Liam shrugs his t-shirt over his head and pulls his joggers on. “Hey,” he says, clapping Louis on the shoulders and smiling at him. “It wasn't you, okay? You were great. The only thing that got me through it was you in my ear.”

Louis sighs, looking up at him. Neither of them speaks for a moment. They study each other in frustration.

“If you want to get a drink, I'll come,” Louis offers, to break the tension. “If you're willing to wait around while I do some paperwork.”

“Noo, I appreciate it, but I've got plans with Andy, actually,” Liam says, going over and getting his keys and wallet off the vanity, slipping them into his pockets. “But if you're out later, text us?”

“Yeah, will do.”

Liam smiles at him.

“Hey. You were good,” Louis says fiercely.

Liam sighs, grabbing his jacket and going for the door. Louis steps into his path.

“Say you were good,” Louis says. “I won't leave ‘til you say you did a good job.”

“Louis…” Liam says in gentle exasperation. “C’mon --”

He steps to the side and Louis dogs him, staying in his face.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you were good.”

“I was good,” Liam murmurs half-heartedly.

“Like you mean it, Payno.”

Liam laughs. “I was decent?”

“No!”

“Fine. I was good.” He looks him dead in the eye. “I was good. Happy?”

“Alright,” Louis relents.

Liam squeezes him on the bicep and walks away, waving goodbye.

 

/

 

Even as he sits in the pub talking shop with Andy, Liam can't keep Louis out of his head.

He lingers in there like a headache, right behind Liam’s eyes; his little laughs and glances, his soft voice in Liam’s ear, his fiery belief in him. 

Sophia believed in him, too. Zayn believes in him. He's got a list the length of his arm of people who believe in him. But he can't remember the last time someone's gotten in his face and demanded he believe in himself. 

It takes an hour or so for the conversation to circle around to Louis Walsh leaving. They've staked out the corner seats at the bar, and Liam people-watches the dimly lit crowd behind them as Andy orders another round for them.

Andy takes a sip of his gin and tonic. “So, you'd like -- take it, right? The primetime anchor spot?”

Liam swishes his drink around, clinking the ice together.

“I dunno,” he admits. “It's a lot, mate. I dunno if I'm ready for that at all.”

“You're doing fairly well on weekends,” Andy says. “Not fairly well. Really well. I like your young energy. Jonathan, no offense, had gotten… just lethargic, you know?”

Liam puts his head down on the bar and groans quietly.

“Look, if you took over for Walsh, you could do anything,” Andy says. “A few years in that spot, it's like a golden ticket. You don't even have to stay.”

“I want to stay,” Liam protests. “I like staying places.”

“Yeah, but you're ambitious, aren't you? You had to be, to apply for Jonathan’s spot.”

Liam nods slowly. He supposes he is; as soon as he realized he had a highly bankable skill -- the ability to charm on television -- he had begun to invest heavily in that aspect of himself. He had started working out, spending a lot of money on haircuts, elocution lessons, taking hours of his weekends to tweak his resume and edit his reel. It had been enough to draw the attention of a girl who hadn't looked twice at him in secondary, it had been enough to land him here.

But he thinks he's gone too far, maybe. He shot for the moon and landed on the sun. And as much as everyone insists he belongs here, he doesn't really believe any of them, save for Louis.

“I didn't think I'd get it, honestly,” he admits, raising his head and playing with his stirrer. “Coming up through sports like I did. I mean, I hoped, but I was realistic about the odds.”

“Simon must see something in you,” Andy says. “Paul too.”

Liam chuckles. “Paul says I’m…” he does air quotes, “A very nice young bloke.”

“Which he says about everyone, of course.”

“I reckoned.”

“Louis likes you,” Andy says. “Always a good sign.”

Liam takes a sip of his drink. “Right.”

He looks up across the crowd, and as if he's been summoned by the mention of Louis, there’s Zayn, standing in a group by the door and quietly talking to someone.

“Hey,” Liam calls.

Zayn glances over. “Hey,” he says back, smiling. He whispers something to the blokes he's with and comes over, moving easily through the crush of people. People tend to stay out of Zayn’s way; he projects a lot of personal space.

Liam realizes, at the last possible second, that Andy looks like he's bit into a lemon. The ITV/Zayn drama is always slipping his mind; probably wishful thinking on his part.

“‘Sup, Liam?” Zayn says, and they bring each other in for a lad handshake.

“‘Sup, man, funny seeing you here.”

Zayn shrugs. “Just got off work.”

“Right, us too,” Liam says.

“I saw you,” Zayn says with a grin. “While I was waitin’ to go live, I watched you on me phone. I said to Gerry, that's my boy right there! I knew him when!”

Liam laughs. “Just filling in this week, dunno if I'm anything to brag about yet.”

“Too modest, mate. You're on the up and up.” Zayn clears his throat. “Hey, Andy.”

“Hey,” Andy says, looking at his drink.

“You've been alright?”

“I'm fine. You?”

“Can't complain.”

“How's Auntie Beeb?”

“Great,” Zayn says icily.

“Fantastic.” Andy looks down at his phone, texting someone.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Liam says to Zayn.

Zayn squints at him. “No, no, let me buy _you_ one.”

“Noo, hey, I wouldn't be in this business without you, alright? I owe you a drink.”

“Fine, twist me arm with the sentimentals...”

Liam grins at him and flags the bartender over. When Zayn takes his rum and coke, he claps Liam on the shoulder, swaying slightly. Liam studies him; he looks on the thin side, a little run down, a little wearied.

Liam wants to ask him how he's really doing, but he has to get back to his friends, so Liam just waves at him as he goes.

Andy glances up, all smiles again.

“Sorry,” Liam says.

He flaps his hand. “Don't be.”

“Was it really that bad, him leaving?” Liam says, his brow knitting. He wouldn't ask, but he's got several drinks in him. The dim lights are smearing, and his mouth filter isn't working so well.

“It was pretty shite,” Andy says with a rueful laugh. “You know what happened between him and Louis, right?”

Liam tilts his head. “I mean, I know Louis took it hard that he left.”

“Um… yeah, well…” Andy chews on his cheek. “When Zayn came back to get his shit from his desk, Louis said something to him, and Zayn came back at him, and they got in his massive screaming row in the newsroom. It was so fucking awkward. You know -- they're both Northern. It got pretty nasty.”

“Shit,” Liam says, gnawing on his lip.

“Yeah, it was the first time I saw Louis get unprofessional at work. I mean, he swears and jokes around, but that was on another level.”

Liam glances at Zayn across the room, through the crowd. He's listening to someone else talk; his eyes look distant. He's almost finished his drink.

“And no one sided with Zayn?”

Andy laughs. “He didn't give us the chance to. Dropped us all like hot potatoes. I'm sure to hear him tell it, you'd think we turned our backs on him, but he didn't give us the luxury. Personally, after that, I would’ve sided with Louis anyway. It's sort of a relief he didn't try to keep in touch.”

Liam finishes his drink.

“I didn't know that,” he says quietly. “That him and Louis had a big falling out like that.”

“Louis doesn't talk about it. If you weren't there, you wouldn't know. Even Perrie had to hear about it secondhand, ‘cos Zayn came in on her day off.”

Liam presses his empty glass to his forehead. “Fuck,” he mutters. “D’you think Louis -- d’you think he thinks I'm not on the level, at all?”

“Noo, no, mate. He trusts you. I already said he likes you, didn't I?”

“Sometimes he's a bit… you know.”

Andy laughs. “He's just pulling your pigtails.”

“He never texted,” Liam says, squinting at his phone. He has a Snapchat notification. He opens it.

It's Louis. _Can’t make it out tonight lad early producers meeting sorry !! tell Andy I say hullo_

They've been using Snapchat the past few days instead of texting. Liam isn't sure why. It feels more private, more intimate. He even sent Louis a selfie with the dog filter the other day, which Louis had responded to with a filter that made his head tiny.

“Ah, alright, so he’s bailed.”

“Bastard.”

“He says hi, though.”

“Tell him hi back. Actually…” Andy feels around for his own phone. “I've got to get home, myself.”

“Early meeting?”

“Right, how'd you know?”

“Ha, ‘cos that's why your boss abandoned us.”

Andy laughs. “Oh, so I can come out and still get up early, and the life of the party can't? I'll give him shit for that tomorrow…”

They say their goodbyes. Liam scrolls through his phone, wondering who else he can text to come drink. He sees he's got loads of texts in his group chat with his closest mates from back home, but he doesn't open that as often, these days. He's not in on their jokes anymore.

Liam finds himself wishing he knew more people in London, and like magic the ever-prescient Zayn comes back over to him, having abandoned his friends.

Liam watches Zayn as he closes out his tab. His fringe bounces as he signs the receipt in his loopy script. “No work tomorrow?”

“Nah,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “I get Tuesdays and Thursdays off.”

“Not weekends?”

“Not weekends, no.”

“That’s bollocks.”

“You work weekends,” Zayn points out.

“Right, but I'm paying my dues,” Liam says, watching as Zayn gets his last beer of the night and swigs a good bit of it.

“Me too,” Zayn says with a crooked smile, wiping foam off his lip. “All over again. The BBC’s so big it's like starting out at the bottom. Like bein’ twenty-two again.”

“Man,” Liam says sympathetically. “They pay you well, at least?”

Zayn waggles his hand. “Better than ITV did.”

“Where'd your mates go?”

“Clubbing.”

“You weren't feeling it?”

“Not tonight.”

Liam runs his tongue over his teeth, turning his wallet over and over again in the hand that's resting on the bar. The noise around him pounds in his head, distracting him from his thoughts.

Zayn eyes him. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

Liam sighs. “Yeah, actually.”

“Wassup?”

Liam glances up at him. “You scooped Harry’s story,” he says. “You really sort of backed him into a corner.”

Zayn’s face shutters. He draws back.

“And?” he says coolly. “Welcome to the fuckin’ news.”

“Zayn, this wasn't totally par for the course and you know it.”

“Yeah?”

Zayn starts rummaging in his pockets, fumbly with annoyance.

“Let’s go outside,” he mutters. “I want to smoke.”

Liam gets up and trails him outside to the little porch, where, thankfully, no one else is. It's drizzly now. Liam watches as Zayn tries several times to get his lighter to work, while headlights from passing cars illuminate his handsome face.

“So you're, what, their bulldog now?” Zayn mutters, taking a drag.

“Noo, mate. Actually, I'm a little worried about you.”

Zayn scoffs.

“I'm serious. It's not like you to crib off somebody.”

“Liam, honestly --” Zayn sighs and presses his thumb between his eyes. “You're overthinkin’ this.”

“You took his exclusive.”

“He’ll get another! Probably he’ll take mine, one of these days. No offense, but you don’t come from this world, Liam. It’s a little different here in London.”

“Listen --” Liam cuts himself off, frustrated, trying to think of how to redirect him.

“Look,” Zayn mutters. “I’m just protectin’ myself.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I _mean_ the Beeb is sniffing around him. They have been for a bit now. They got me instead, but I'm not enough, apparently, ‘cos they still want to poach him. And I --” Zayn drags hard off his cigarette. “It's tougher than I thought, there. It's not like ITV. They don't give a fuck. They're too big to. I’m under a lot of pressure to be constantly cracking investigations like that. Sometimes I run out of time and I need to do somethin’ a little shady to make deadline. It ain’t malicious of me.”

Liam sighs. “I'm sorry, mate.”

“Hey, I wanted it,” Zayn says quietly. “I got it.”

They sit there without speaking for a moment. Zayn taps his cigarette into the ashtray.

“You've got to look out you don't get sucked into that ‘we’re a family’ nonsense over there,” Zayn says, his voice suddenly sharp. “It’s not a family, Liam. It's only a family long as you're willing to stick around at your own expense.”

“I don't believe that,” Liam rejoinders. He knows they're all still friendly with Jonathan, who left for brighter pastures. There doesn't seem to be hard feelings for any recent ITV alum except Zayn.

Zayn glances up at him with hard eyes. “Trust me, they'll use your loyalty against you. That noble thing you've got… big vulnerability. And Louis Tomlinson? Keep an eye out.”

Liam is unpleasantly surprised by this turn in the conversation. His palms tingle.

“How's that?” he says.

“The second you do something he doesn't like, you're dead to ‘im.”

“I don't believe that,” Liam says evenly, because he really doesn't.

Zayn cuts his eyes away, toward the street. “Whatever.”

Liam studies him. “You miss him.”

“Like I miss a hole in the head.”

Liam knows him too well to buy this, and it shows on his face. After a moment, Zayn relents.

“Yeah, I miss ‘im. I had friends there like I'm never gonna have again,” he mutters. “But if the price of havin’ ‘em is I'm never allowed to leave or be me own person, then… whatever.”

Liam sighs. “Just back off Harry, alright? I don't even think he wants to leave, so you don't need to worry about outperforming him. He's not a threat to you. I get you're stressed, mate, but nobody else knows that. You just come off like an opportunist, when you do shit like that.”

But Zayn shakes his head. “Doesn't want to leave? Look, nobody thought I wanted to leave, either.”

Liam has no response to this. He bums a smoke from Zayn, not wanting to leave the pub or his company. He'll do anything to avoid his empty flat these days.


	8. Chapter 8

On Tuesday, the show goes better. Liam is smoother, crisper, his banter with Sharon comes more easily.

He's still all nerves. He gets breathing fast before the show, but then Louis is in his ear. _Fifteen, ten, five…_

He carries Liam through the whole half-hour. Liam fixes his gaze on the prompter, reading more easily than he ever does, hanging on the intimate sound of Louis’ soft voice in his head at every transition: _Thattaboy, Payno. Nice, Sharon. Stretch a bit, Ellie, thanks. Perfect, Liam, good stuff._

Afterward, Louis pokes his head in the door as he's changing.

“Basketball?” he says.

Liam points at him like, _good idea_ , and nods.

In the warm March darkness they play, not talking much. The only sounds are the thunk of the ball, the scrape of their trainers, their grunts and sighs. Louis’ eyes and teeth flash in the dark at Liam.

They circle each other, not quite touching -- until they do start touching, start egregiously fouling each other, putting their hands into each other's spaces and onto each other's sweaty bodies, slapping the ball away, laughing breathlessly at their own bravado. At one point Louis tackles him and they fall onto the pavement together, all giggles and grins. Liam scrapes his arm, but he doesn't care.

He gets up and makes a hook shot, despite Louis elbowing into his space. “And one,” he crows.

The fear he keeps feeling is growing more distant. Like ocean waves pulling him under, he lets himself be rocked into warm darkness. He's afraid of Louis, afraid of himself, afraid of what's in the air between them, but he likes that fear now. He’s always sort of liked falling headlong into things. The nearness of them is dangerous, but his brain has stopped recognizing danger.

“Liam,” Louis says with a laugh, when the sun is completely down and they're starting to shiver in their exercise clothes. Liam can see all his tattoos, now, exposed by his sleeveless shirt, shining blue-black on his sweaty skin. He's standing in front of the hoop, hands on his hips, no longer even making an attempt at guarding it.

Liam dribbles, not letting on that he's getting cold. “Yeah?”

“How many points do you really have to beat me by, to feel like a big man, here?”

Liam sinks a basket, nothing but net.

“Twenty,” he says, grinning.

 

/

 

Simon corrals them after the show on Thursday. They’re sitting in the conference room, talking sports -- Liam still in his jacket and tie, having loosened the latter around his neck but not taken it off yet, too absorbed in his conversation with Louis. They both glance up as Simon raps a knuckle on the glass.

“‘Ey,” Louis calls to him, waving him in. He doesn’t move from his position at the head of the table, which he’s resting his small Vans-clad feet on. Liam is starting to admire how little he cares about pleasing authority.

“So,” Simon says, leaning against the glass door with his arms folded. Louis arches his eyebrows at him, and Liam glances between them. “Good show today.”

“Yeah?” Louis says, smiling.

“Actually, very good show today. Liam, for a relative novice, you’re really getting a good feel for nightly news.”

“Am I?”

“I certainly think so,” Simon says, looking to Louis. “Does our executive producer agree?”

“Definitely,” Louis says, and gives Liam a little wink. Liam glances down, smiling, and fiddles with his watch.

“Even Walsh thinks so,” Simon says. “And he wouldn’t be inclined to say that unless it were true.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Louis says. “Having a replacement in the wings gets him out the door faster, yeah?”

Liam’s eyes snap to Simon, whose expression sours.

“Louis, can you do me a favor and not wildly speculate on rumors in front of the talent?”

“You know, I can give you two a mo,” Liam offers.

“No, no,” Simon says, putting a hand up. “Louis is right, actually. Although he should take more care in how loudly he’s right, and in what company.”

“I’m not keepin’ any secrets from Liam,” Louis says. “He’s one of us, now.”

“How cute,” Simon says drily.

Louis smiles winningly at him.

“Liam,” Simon says, turning to him.

“Yessir.”

“First of all…” He indicates Louis. “Please don’t let this one rub off on you.”

Liam laughs.

“Who’s to say he isn’t rubbing off on _me_?” Louis demands. “He’s got an evil streak. You haven’t played footie with him.”

“Um, not fair!” Liam exclaims. “You’re a provocateur, it doesn’t count.”

“ _Provocateur?_ Put down the OED, Payno.”

Liam subtly rubs at his facial hair with his middle finger. Louis grins.

“This is your workplace, not the football pitch,” Simon says, and he comes over to them and sits, reaching up to knock Louis’ feet off the table. Louis aggrievedly sits up in his chair.

“Second of all,” Simon says, “Paul, Louis Walsh and I all had a sit-down yesterday evening.”

The room goes very quiet and still. Liam looks up, out through the glass. Their coworkers are keeping an eye on them; Niall and Ellie are by her desk whispering (Niall gives him a little wave when Liam catches his eye) and Nick is pretending to look at the Chartbeat display by the web bullpen, but keeps surreptitiously peeking at them.

“Right,” Louis says. “After the Wednesday show?”

“After the Wednesday show, yes. And... “ Simon pauses and rubs at his stubble. “We came to the decision that Liam ought to take over Monday evenings for good.”

Shockwaves of anxiety roll over Liam’s body. He shivers a little, though the room is warm.

“For good,” he repeats.

“Indefinitely, until we decide how best to move forward. You might all have picked up on the fact that Walsh would like to retire sooner rather than later.”

“‘Course,” Louis says.

“But what about --” Liam breaks off, jiggling his leg. “I do the weekend, too.”

“Right, you’ll keep doing the weekend for a while,” Simon says. “The weekend and Monday nights. And then we’ll take a look at how that goes -- doing the six on a regular basis -- and if all is well, we’ll see how soon we can get you into Walsh’s seat for good. How does that sound?”

Liam is about to respond, but stills himself. He reminds himself that this is an incredibly good thing for him. He could go on and do anything after this. He could be a top presenter at Sky Sports. If he can just endure, if he can adapt, doors will fly open to opportunities he’d never dreamed of.

“Fantastic,” he says, and offers his hand to Simon, who smiles and shakes.

Louis observes this without saying anything. There's a distance in his eyes; Liam can tell he's lost in thought. He seems to think a lot, for someone so impulsive.

“Louis?” Simon says, turning to him.

Louis puts on a smile and nods with energy. “Sounds great. Sharon likes him, this week’s gone well, and we welcome the fresh energy.”

“He’ll need you,” Simon says, like Liam isn’t in the room.

Louis glances up at Liam. They lock eyes.

“You’ve got me,” he says, like Simon isn’t in the room.

 

/

 

“I reckon I want another tattoo,” Liam says to Louis following afternoon.

They’re squished in the booth together, drinking tea, watching the show from last night. Louis is writing frantic, seemingly illegible notes to himself in a little reporter’s pad, and Liam is scrutinizing his own performance. They're sharing a pair of earbuds.

Louis pauses the video and glances over at him, his eyes twinkling.

“You've inspired me.”

“Oh _really_?”

Liam nods slowly. “And I like to get one after shit changes on me… breakups, promotions.”

“So you've got to get two, in that case.”

Liam laughs. “We’ll see how number one goes.”

“You should go to Lottie’s shop,” Louis says. “She's really good, I think I told you she's just come out of her apprenticeship? You can look at her portfolio first, obviously.”

“Sure, yeah. Absolutely.”

“What d’you want? Like what size?”

Liam puts his hands close together. “Small one.”

“Yeah? Little?”

“Itty-bitty,” Liam says, sing-songy.

Louis grins. “Where at?”

“Dunno yet,” Liam admits. “Somewhere secret… Ribs, maybe?”

“If you do go to Lottie, I’ll come with you,” Louis says. “Haven’t seen her in a bit.”

It’s a statement, not a request. Liam chuckles. “Alright,” he says, picking up his tea and having a sip.

Louis starts up the video again.

“You say entrepreneur wrong,” he says, squinting.

“How should I be saying it?”

“More ‘pre’. _Preneur._ You say it like, ‘panore’.”

Liam mimes taking notes in the air with an imaginary pen. “Noted.”

Louis laughs.

 

/

 

“Hang on,” Niall yells, reshuffling his feet. “What’s t’ rule for throw-ins? Which foot can leave the ground?”

“Neither of them!” Louis shouts in exasperation.

Liam and Robbie glance at each other, then jog in closer.

“Oh, cheers, love the support,” Niall says to them, grinning. “You’ll see, when it goes straight over your heads.”

“For God’s sakes, just _throw_ it, Neil!”

Niall holds the ball aloft in one hand as he gives Louis the finger with the other.

After the game, which Liam’s side wins handily, Harry meets them at the sidelines. He looks like some sort of period drama prince in a long coat, his hair freshly trimmed.

“Hullo,” he says. “How was the match?”

“Terrible,” Louis says.

“He's only saying that ‘cos his side got slaughtered,” Liam puts in.

Harry grins. “Lunch?”

“Aye, I've missed breakfast,” Niall exclaims, heaving his bag over his shoulder.

Harry wrinkles his nose. “You're all smelly,” he says. “Maybe I'll sit at the counter and you can get a separate smelly table.”

Louis drops his football and wrestles a protesting Harry to the ground, rubbing his armpit in his face.

“Louis!” Harry shouts, catching him in the ribs with an elbow. “You're horrid!”

“Liam, help me,” Louis demands.

To Louis’ surprise, Liam actually whips his shirt off, bends over and rubs it in Harry’s face.

Harry, wheezing with laughter, begs them for mercy. Louis relents and helps him to his feet.

“I've got grass all over,” Harry complains.

Niall helps him brush it off as Liam and Louis glance at each other, grinning. Louis tries to ignore his naked torso as he pulls his shirt back on -- the sweaty darkness of his chest hair and the flush of his skin.

“Can you come along?” Louis says to him. “Since we've been pre-empted for cricket?”

Liam nods. “Definitely. Me and Cheryl don't go on ‘til four.”

Robbie heads out with Owen, clapping Liam on the shoulder as he does. “Good game, mate.”

“You too,” Liam calls after him.

“Next time you're on our team,” Louis says. “I'll trade Niall for you.”

Niall makes a face.

 

/

 

“Want to go to the Regency?” Harry says, turning on his heel to look at them as they trudge along the streets of London -- sweaty, but less encumbered having chucked their gear in the boot of Louis’ car.

“Nah, it’s the weekend, it'll be packed with tourists,” Niall says.

“Alpino?” Liam suggests. “I went there the other day, I liked it.”

Harry nods. “Their shopfront is pretty,” he says. “And I need to update my Insta...”

Louis laughs. “Please say you mean your reporter one.”

“No, _Nick_ , my personal account.”

“Use your reporter one!”

“And say what…” Harry falls in step with the rest of them and mimes typing on a phone. “Looky, here I am, having a fry-up. Hashtag journalism. Hashtag news. Hashtag ITV. Hashtag I love Simon Cowell and all property owned thereunder.”

“No way _thereunder_ is a word,” Niall comments.

“Google it.”

“That’s what Liam does,” Louis says. “Lots of hashtags.”

“Oh no,” Liam says in horror. “I'm not _that_ big of a dork, don't libel me like this.”

“You like them, is all I'm saying.”

“I like his hashtags too,” Harry says, grinning at Liam. “They're funny. I liked -- what was the one from when you and Bressie covered the breakfast cereal pop-up shop?”

“Oh, shit, I know which one you mean, but I can't remember…”

“Libel’s written, by the way,” Louis says, nudging him. “I can't libel you out loud.”

“ _Slander_ , excuse me, don't slander me,” Liam says, and tousles his hair.

Louis grins to himself even as he twists away, protesting. He turns and gives Liam a friendly little slap on the cheek, which Liam isn't quite quick enough to return to him.

“So lads, thereunder _is_ actually a word,” Niall says, interrupting them and sticking his phone back in his pocket. “For future reference.”

Louis glances over at him as they cross the street. “See? Don't doubt Harold.”

Harry laughs and taps his temple.

“Steel trap,” he says, and then has the back of his shirt yanked on hard by Liam as he absent-mindedly tries to walk out in front of a car that's turning past them.

 

/

 

At the restaurant they squeeze into a booth, Louis next to Niall and Liam next to Harry. Louis stares hard at the menu, his concentration ruined by the fact that the seating is cramped and so his knee is forced to brush against Liam’s under the table. He reads the words _plain omelette_ eight or so times in a row while heat rises in his cheeks.

Harry abandons them after they order tea to go take photos of the retro shopfront. They’ve got a seat by the window, so they mock him through the glass. Liam joins in on this, to Louis’ delight.

Harry comes back in, chuckling. “You divs,” he says. “The window’s tinted.”

“How'd you see us, then?” Louis challenges.

“I saw your middle finger pressing up against the glass.”

“Ooh, well spotted.”

Liam scoots over so Harry can slide in next to him. Harry glances over at him as he does, examining him in that characteristic way of his.

Louis watches them, a little nervous for a reason he can't pinpoint.

“How’s the six been?” Harry says to him.

Liam glances up, and then looks to Louis, as if he needs his input.

Louis shrugs. “Good, good.”

“I -- yeah, good,” Liam says, and takes a sip of his tea.

“I watched you the other night,” Niall says. “Friday. Looked a lot better than you did Monday.”

“Well, cheers,” Liam says with a smile.

“Can't believe you're on nine days in a row,” Harry says. “That doesn't even seem legal.”

“I don't mind,” Liam demurs. “That's news, right? And after Monday, I'm off again ‘til Saturday.”

Louis has a pang of sadness at this. He likes having Liam around. He likes being in Liam's ear, and he likes Liam being the one reading his scripts. His words sound good in Liam's mouth.

“You're good on the weekends, too,” Harry says. “I don't usually watch, honestly. I mean, it's that sort of -- here's a recipe, look at this dog that went viral, now your seven day forecast -- but you and Cheryl are funny.”

“I do like Cheryl,” Liam says, running his finger along the rim of his teacup. “I think we've got good banter, yeah.”

“We had this marketing meeting a while back,” Louis says. “I dunno why I got dragged into it. It was like, me, sales, Nick, an’ the weekend producers. But, I'm not kiddin’, the _entire_ thing was about if we should say _Cheryl and Liam_ or _Liam and Cheryl_ in adverts.”

Niall laughs. “What won out?”

“Liam and Cheryl,” Liam says, with a little smile.

“Right, ‘cos, as I pointed out, Cheryl and Liam blends together all mushy. _CherylanLiam_.”

Harry scratches his nose. “Good job sales gets paid so much.”

“We can't all be Nick Davies,” Louis teases him.

“Ahh, I get that joke,” Liam exclaims. “Mental, what reading the paper can do for you.”

“An anchor who actually reads t’ paper,” Niall says, impressed.

“You know, Nick Davies doesn't even read the paper anymore,” Harry says. “Fun fact.”

“Really?” Liam says, sounding genuinely curious.

Harry turns to him, going into his reporter posture. “He thinks we've all become, like, purveyors of idiot lies and are basically playing telephone with each other, anymore.”

“What's he like, eighty now?” Louis scoffs. “He can sod off.”

Harry gives him a look.

“No, I'm serious, Haz, what is the point of these old cranks hangin’ around telling us we're doing everything wrong by their old crank standards? Not to diminish his work, but like, Christ.”

“I'm just presenting you what he said,” Harry says. “Feel however you like about it.”

“I feel like I don't like it. I don't even want to know what he thinks about telly.”

“Probably yells at it,” Niall says. “Shakes his cane at us every night.”

Louis laughs into his tea.

“I mean, does that bother you lot?” Liam says, glancing around between them. “It's never really bothered me.”

“Depends why you got into the business in the first place,” Louis says.

Liam leans his elbows on the table. He looks handsome in the light filtering in the window. It sculpts his jaw and darkens his eyes. Louis runs his tongue along his teeth.

“It’s the only thing I was good at,” he says, and laughs ruefully.

“Nah, we all get into it for the same reasons in the end, don't we,” Niall says. “Ain't as noble as everyone likes to pretend. Just people who like to talk, tell stories, be nosy. That sort of thing.”

Harry nods at this.

“Telly people are a bit intense, though, aren't we?” Louis says.

Liam catches his gaze and holds it. He’d haloed by the light from the window. Something passes between them, in the soft afternoon haze. Louis doesn't want to look anywhere that isn't Liam's eyes, but he manages to drag his stare away.

“I’d say that's true,” Harry says.

Louis wonders if he's noticed the casual flirting going on with him and Liam. Probably he has. Certainly he'd never mention it. Harry is often inscrutable, but the things which he's most likely to be inscrutable about are painfully obvious if you know him.

“But I dunno, Niall’s rather laidback,” Louis says.

Niall, who's texting with Ellie, glances up. “I mean... I’m a history nerd, politics nerd. Nothin' seems so urgent when you know history.”

Their waitress finally comes by and takes their orders. Once she's gone, Louis grabs the little tabletop trivia game from where it's nestled beside the sugars.

“No,” Harry says immediately. “Pass. You’re too competitive.”

“Weeak...”

“You can't bait me, either. It's Sunday, I'm relaxed.”

“Niall?”

“Eh, lemme drink my tea in peace.”

“Let you get your hole in peace, more like,” Louis says.

Niall blanches. “I've told you a hundred times me an’ her are just friends, now!”

Harry shakes his head and sips his tea significantly at Niall.

Louis turns to Liam, holding it out to him. They look at each other for a moment. Distantly, Louis registers the bell over the door chiming behind him, and the tinkly laughter of kids as a family comes inside.

“Alright, I'll take you on,” Liam says, drawing his bottom lip up between his teeth just a little. Louis tries desperately not to stare at his mouth.

“He's the devil, Liam,” Harry warns him.

“I'll keep my wits about me.”

“What was Tom Jones' first UK number one single?” Louis reads off, and glances up at Liam.

Liam squints, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “God, I dunno. That pussycat song? Hello Pussycat?”

“ _Hello pussycat_ ,” Louis sings. “No, I'm sorry, Payno, it's actually _It's Not Unusual_. And you're thinking of _What's New Pussycat_.”

“Ahh, alright… off to a bad start.”

“Sorta like _Hello Pussycat_ better, honestly,” Niall says.

“Classic Tom Jones hit, _Hello There, Your Pussy_ ,” Louis says, laughing.

“ _What’s New With Your Pussy_?” Liam jokes.

Harry chuckles. “It's not unusual to… hmm.”

“To have fun with any pussy?” Louis supplies.

“There you are.” Harry glances up and makes a face. “Um, there's a family sitting behind us.”

Louis snorts. “They'll live.”

He passes the trivia thing to Liam, who flips to the next question.

“What was the name of the family from television’s _Upstairs Downstairs_?” he reads.

“Oh, shit,” Louis exclaims. “I know this one, me mum loved this show. Uhh… fuck.”

After a moment more of deliberation, he pulls out his phone to look it up.

“Excuse me, are you cheating at trivia right now?” Liam exclaims, laughing. “Just right in front of me?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Louis challenges.

“I'm definitely not going to give you the point, is what.”

“Well, alright then, Dad!”

“See, I warned you,” Harry says, shaking his head. “He's a little monster.”

“Horrible cheater,” Niall puts in. “Cheated at Monopoly once, in uni. Who cheats at Monopoly?”

“People who want to win Monopoly,” Louis retorts. “Don't bury the lede, Niall, that was well into hour three of the game.”

“Right, it had just started to get good!”

“You only thought that ‘cos you accidentally ate two edibles.”

Liam hands Louis the game back. “I put that you got it wrong,” he says sternly.

“Alright, alright,” Louis says, grinning. “The answer was the Bellamys, by the way.”


	9. Chapter 9

On the first Monday Liam is an official six o’clock presenter, Louis finds him in the dressing room, sat in the vanity chair tweeting while Lou rinses off a comb.

Louis heads for Liam and starts mindlessly playing with his hair. Liam glances up at him in the mirror and smiles. Louis’ heart goes funny in his chest, and his mouth gets dry. He looks down at his own hands as he ruffles Liam’s quiff back and forth.

Lou looks up. “Excuse me!” she says. “That's half an hour of work you're goofing with!”

“I'm not doing anything,” Louis defends himself. “Anyway, Liam doesn't mind.”

“Haven't you got anything better to do on a Monday?”

“No, I finished the show an hour ago.”

“You write too fast,” Lou mutters. “Little speed demon.”

Liam hits post on his tweet.

“Was that a selfie?” Louis ribs him.

He smiles. “Sod off.”

“Was it?”

Liam wraps an arm around his shoulders and brings him in close. “It was a selfie with Lou,” he demurs. “You know, station branding.”

“Sorry, was your face not still in it? That's a selfie, mate.”

“I can't help it that my selfies do really well! Better than any of the stories I post.”

“I bet they do,” Louis intones. He wriggles out of Liam’s grip and brings his hands to his face, pulling his skin back like he's modeling a face lift on him, then sticking a finger in his ear. Liam sits willingly through all of this, patient as a dog.

They've been touching a lot lately. Louis knows that for the sake of not making his longing for Liam worse, he ought to lay off, keep his hands to himself, but he's never been good at that. His hyperactive, hypertactile urges drive him. He can't stop, even if it means he lies awake at night sometimes, burning all over from thinking about Liam's hands on him.

He needs the intimacy, too, to make their partnership easier. A hand on Liam's arm calms Liam, but it also helps Louis understand how he's feeling before the show -- if Liam leans toward or away from him, if his arm relaxes or stays tense, if he slips his own arm over Louis’ shoulders.

Louis is like a blind man, touching him to see him better. He suspects it might work the same in reverse.

“All your selfies and recipes,” he continues, fluffing Liam's hair. “You ought to post, like, topless cooking vids.”

Liam turns in the chair with interest. “Really?”

Louis cracks up laughing. “No!”

“‘Cos it's not a half-bad idea!”

“Oh my _God_! This is a news organization, not Brazzers.”

“Less Brazzers, more, I dunno, what do women like? Fifty Shades?”

“So you're going to be, what, flogging chicken breasts?”

Lou finishes and comes over to them, hitting Louis gently in the chest to shoo him. “Liam's lying when he says he doesn't mind your nonsense, you know,” she says, fixing Liam’s hair, which Louis sees to his regret he's thoroughly mussed.

“No I'm not,” Liam protests, and winks at Louis. Louis’ guts churn all over each other like eels.

“Anyway, you've got quite a few male fans as well, Liam,” she says conversationally. “Not just the Fifty Shades mum types.”

Liam looks down at his phone.

“I think you're right about that,” he says softly in response. Louis can't tell what that maddening catch in his voice is -- if he's embarrassed or pleased. He stares hard at the back of Liam's head, wondering.

“Well, you’re well-groomed,” he says, feigning disinterest, "gay men like that," and then immediately and unhappily wonders why he felt the need to say anything at all on the subject.

Liam makes eye contact with him in the mirror and snorts. “Don’t drown me in praise, Tommo.”

“I don't need to tell you you're handsome,” Louis shoots back.

Liam lifts a brow. “You don't?”

Louis inhales and looks up at Lou, who's engrossed in her work.

“Get out of here,” she says, distracted. “Go bother someone else.”

“I'll bother Niall.”

“Excellent plan. And if you’re going out there, please remind Harry that Sam wants his motorcycle jacket back at his earliest convenience.”

“You know,” Liam says, turning again in his chair as Louis walks away. “You post quite a lot of selfies, too.”

Louis stops in his tracks, his trainers squeaking on the linoleum. “Right, but I've got five hundred followers, and you've got, what, seven thousand, now?”

“Vain is vain,” Liam teases.

“Are you just, like, insulting yourself, lad?”

“I'm definitely insulting both of us.”

“Why haven't you got any selfies with _me_ in them?”

Liam shrugs and beckons him over. Louis leans over his shoulder, posing.

“Lou, get in too.”

She pops into the side of the frame, hair dryer in her hand.

“Perfect,” Liam says. “I'll delete the other one, this is better.”

“Better station branding to have us both in it,” Louis says.

“No, it’s not that. I just like both of you.”

Pleased, Louis leaves them be.

 

/

 

Liam seems a bit tiddly once the show ends. It's as if it's finally hitting him that this Monday thing is permanent, and that once he's just gotten in a routine with it he'll face down an entire week of the six, an entire day to day reality of being the outward face of ITV. That he'll be in promos with Sharon, that it'll be him sitting down across from David Cameron.

Not stodgy old Louis Walsh, so experienced by now that a tough interview looks as easy for him as riding a bicycle. Young, handsome Liam, poised and bright, his nerves still throbbing at the surface of his skin.

He finds Louis after the show in the control room, popping into the doorway, his tie loose around his neck.

“Wanna leave?” Liam says. “Or d’you have more to do?”

“No, I'm finished,” Louis lies. The work he does have, he can finish tomorrow. He gets up, patting the back of Olly’s chair as he passes him, and joins Liam at the doorway.

Liam fills it, so Louis sort of awkwardly lingers in front of him, looking up at him.

“We don't have to do this, if you don't want,” Liam says. “We could just get a drink, or something.”

Louis grins. “Too late to pussy out, Payno.”

Liam laughs gaily, his dark eyes sparkling. “Alright! Alright. Let’s go tat me up.”

Liam changes his clothes and they head out to his car. He jingles his keys in his hand and strides out ahead. Louis watches him in quiet curiosity.

He drives a somewhat banged-up Jetta with a bike mount on the boot. Louis wonders if he off-roads, or if he just put it on so he could bring a bike along when he moved to London. The inside is messy-neat, like Harry’s car. Messy with a method to the madness.

They're rolling down the road before Louis says, “So -- you've got a design in mind?”

Liam shrugs. He’s driving one-handed, dressed down in a henley and dark jeans. It's a warm night, although the sun’s already sinking down over the Thames.

“Dunno,” he says. “I've got some ideas saved on my phone right now -- could you maybe pull those up, tell me what you think? And put your sister’s shop in the GPS?”

“Yeah, mate.” Louis settles against the seat, glancing out at the road. They're driving riverside, now. The sky is casting a peachy red on the water. “What’s your passcode?”

Liam grins sheepishly. “One two three four.”

“Liam. You've got to be kidding.”

Liam laughs. “It used to be different, I changed it for Sophia. She couldn't remember my other one.”

Louis glances at him. “You let your girl go through your phone?”

“I mean, why not? Haven't got anything to hide.”

“Right, but she should trust you.”

“They don't trust any of us,” Liam says. “Not these days. You never let Eleanor look at your phone?”

“No,” Louis says.

“She never asked?”

“She asked, once in a while.” Harry was the one who never asked. “I didn't let her.”

They turn a corner, and the setting sun floods bright through the windscreen. Liam slides his sunglasses down over his eyes.

“Something to hide?” he ribs him.

“Nah, it's the principle of it. It's my privacy.”

“I'd rather just avoid the argument,” Liam says, shrugging.

“Alright, weak, but I get it.” Louis pauses. “I dunno, I sort of like a good argument… gets your blood going.”

Liam coughs _Northern_. Louis flicks him on the arm; Liam pantomimes losing control of the steering wheel because of this.

“Fuck off,” Louis says, laughing. “Don't put us in the river.”

“You don't fancy a swim?”

“Not in this weather, no.”

Liam goes quiet for a bit.

“I always went with Zayn for tattoos, before,” he says.

“Yeah?” Louis mutters, opening Liam’s phone and then his camera roll.

“Yeah, ‘cos he -- I mean, when I met him in uni, he already had like, three or four. He took me for my first. It was the hieroglyphs, and he got -- I dunno, whatever’s on his bicep --”

“The skull, I reckon?”

“Right, the skull. We got pretty buzzed first, and then we were standing outside the shop chewing gum and trying to get it together, pretend like we were sober so they wouldn't turn us away. But we kept laughing.”

Louis chuckles and fiddles with a frayed string on his jeans. “Me and him used to go together, too… when he worked at ITV.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Louis clears his throat. “We have a matching one, actually.”

Liam’s eyebrows lift, like he's surprised to hear this. Louis supposes he has kind of misled him about just how close they used to be. He doesn't like to think about it much.

“I have matching ones with… let's see… Zayn, who I don't speak to,” Louis says, ticking off his fingers. “Harry, who I’m broken up with. And Lottie. One out of three ain't bad, I guess.”

“You're like a walking PSA against matching tattoos,” Liam marvels.

Louis laughs. “I do miss Zayn, anyway. He was a good time.”

Liam stops at a light and glances over at him. “I think he misses you too, honestly.”

Louis looks out the passenger window and shrugs, aching in his chest both from this and from Liam’s gaze on him.

“I had a little row with him,” Liam says. “About the story.”

“Oh, Payno, no, you didn't have to,” Louis says quickly. “I didn't mean for it to be a thing.”

“No, I wanted to,” Liam assures him. “But he's, y’know. Defensive.”

“Right.”

“I don't mind having a difficult conversation, though.”

“Alright,” Louis demurs. “Long as it's not purely on my behalf.”

“It wasn't,” Liam says. “Not totally, anyway.”

They go quiet.

“So, uh -- I really like this one,” Louis says, tapping the phone with his thumb. “With the lion. The crest?”

“Oh, yeah,” Liam says, lighting up. “The --” he laughs. “The Payne family crest. I was thinking that one, too. It’s a bit bigger than I wanted, but…”

“Definitely do it. It'll look sick. And it's like -- you know, if you want a tattoo as like a...” He trails off, gesturing. “A ‘this is who I am’ type thing, I mean -- that's it.”

Liam nods slowly. “It's a done deal then.”

Louis looks down and smiles, then clears his throat and drops Liam’s phone into the cup holder.

 

/

 

“You two got lucky,” Lottie calls as she holds open the parlor door for them.

They hop out of the car and bounce up the sidewalk to her, following her in.

She trails ahead of them, flipping lights on.

“Tommy wanted to close up early today,” she says. “But I'd already got your call, so I told him I'd just do you lot and then close after. You've got the place to yourselves.”

“Nice,” Louis says. “So he can scream as much as he likes.”

“I don't scream!”

“Never had your ribs done, have you?”

Liam flashes him one of his long-suffering smiles. “Fine, wanna bet?”

“Yeah, you buy me dinner if you shout out,” Louis says. “And that includes loud cursing, any sort of loud noises.”

“Am I allowed some quiet cursing?”

“You can have one little swear per minute.”

Liam thinks this over. “Two.”

“Fine,” Louis allows. He’s likes how eager Liam seems to take his instruction.

“What about like -- sharp intakes of breath?”

Louis laughs and comes over to him, his hands in his pockets. “As many as you like.”

Liam bumps shoulders with him. “Good.”

Lottie has been silently observing all this.

“Are we doing something for you too, Lou?” she says, slipping behind the register and pulling her light hair back so she can tie it off.

“Nah, just Liam. I'm fresh out of ideas.”

Liam hands her his ID and chip card. She sets them aside and rests her elbows on the counter, smiling at him.

“So, what d’we want to do today?” she says. “Nice to meet you, by the way.”

“Hey, you too,” Liam says to her. Louis wanders off to look at the flash boards. “Louis talks about you quite a bit.”

“Oh, _does_ he?”

“Don't encourage her,” Louis calls.

“He's very proud,” Liam says to her in a soft voice. “It's cute.”

Louis very resolutely doesn't turn around. Liam calling him _cute_ in a tender voice feels like someone opened up his chest and slathered cocaine all over his heart. It gets to pounding like it's heard a starter’s pistol.

“Aww, I’m proud of him as well,” Lottie says. “We all think it’s so cool he actually went off to work in telly… ‘Specially our sister Fizzy, she's a big news head.”

Louis taps one of the flash drawings. “I like this ace of spades thing, here.”

“You don't need any more tattoos.”

Louis turns to her. She's looking at the design on Liam’s phone, now.

“‘Scuse me,” he exclaims. “You did ask if I wanted one!”

“I was being polite!”

“What, you'll _refuse_ to tattoo me?”

Lottie turns and taps a sign with one of her glittery nails. It says _We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone at any time._

“But I'm paying you!”

“Maybe I don't want your money,” she teases. She puts her hand next to her mouth and stage-whispers to Liam, “He always tries to tip me, like, two hundred percent.”

Liam laughs fondly.

“My fiancé, too! So, like, Tommy owns the shop? And you aren't even supposed to tip the proprietor? But he did Louis last year and Louis like, stuffed a loaf of cash in his pocket when I wasn't looking.”

Louis wanders back over to them. “Leave your nice brother alone,” he says, lightly snapping his fingers at her. “So what do you think of the design?”

“Oh, I love it.”

“He also wants knuckle tats that say Fuck Soph,” Louis says.

Liam laughs and squares up like a boxer. “Right, that'll play well on telly.”

“The pensioners’ll love it.”

 

/

 

Liam pulls his shirt off and gets settled in the chair while Lottie prints a stencil of the design. Louis drags a tall stool over and perches next to him, swinging his feet. Liam hears latex snap as Lottie gets some gloves on.

“Oh, shit,” Louis says with a laugh when she lays the stencil across Liam’s ribs, leaving the glistening violet impression of the lion on his skin. “I just thought of something.”

They both glances up at him.

“D’you know where we first met, Liam?” he says, his eyes twinkling. He pushes up the sleeves of his jumper. “When we had dinner? The, um, the Lion and Stag pub.”

Liam’s eyebrows knit. He doesn't get it.

“The -- here,” Louis says, and takes his jumper off entirely, then indicates his bicep with the stag.

Liam grins. “Oh, wild!”

“Right?”

“That’s so funny.”

“I thought so,” Louis says. He looks pleased.

“So,” Liam says, and he gets up so he can examine the stencil in the mirror on the opposite wall. It stands out very dark on his ribcage. He gingerly touches his fingers to it, so it doesn't smear. He likes it.

“Good?” Lottie calls.

He turns to her; she buzzes the needle at him and smiles.

“Good,” Liam assures her. “Exactly how I’d pictured it.”

“Perfect. Alright, it'll probably take me about an hour… And you're sure of it? This is what you want?”

Liam looks to Louis.

Louis looks back at him with curiosity. “What _you_ want,” he says.

“But you do like it, right?”

“Well, it ain't going on _my_ ribs, but -- yeah, I like it a lot.” Louis looks a little sheepish; his nose twitches. “I dunno if you should ask me. I've got some really stupid ones, you know. You've seen them.”

“That's alright,” Liam says.

Louis nods. “Then, yeah. It's cool.”

Liam drops back into the chair, then, adrenaline starting to rise in his blood like carbonation bubbles. He hates the buzz of the needle. Lottie peers over him.

“I might actually have you lie down,” she says, and hits a lever on the chair that makes it lean back until he's staring at the ceiling.

Louis bounces into his eyeline, watching as Lottie prepares to stick him. Liam glances at him, and he winks.

“Remember,” he says. “No yelling.”

 

/

 

Liam doesn't yell out. At first, he uses his allotted swears, but after the first fifteen minutes or so he goes quiet, his eyes closed and a serene look on his face. Lottie puts some trance music on.

Louis watches him, his elbow digging into his thigh and his chin resting on his fist. He's glad Lottie is observed in her work and probably isn't noticing that he's transfixed by Liam’s face; the neatly trimmed scruff on his square jaw, the thick sweep of his hair off his forehead, the cute slope of his nose, the gentle flutter of his eyelashes and tensing of his brow when the tattoo needle stabs into a tender spot.

“Tommo,” Liam murmurs after a while. “You're so quiet.”

Louis lets out a breathy laugh. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” Lottie affirms as she guides the needle. Liam flinches as it moves over his rib cage. “Liam love, don't move, please.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“You're fine! The part I'm doing right now is usually what bothers people the most. From here on out, it should be easier.”

Liam chuckles. “I've never sweated this much during one. I've got like, crazy adrenaline right now.”

“We’ll go get a drink when you're done,” Louis tells him. “If you'd like.”

Liam opens his eyes. “Definitely. I’d like to do some exploring around London.” He pauses. “If _you_ like.”

Louis is tickled by this. “Mate, always.”

Liam clears his throat. “Oh,” he murmurs. “I feel it in my back, now. God, that's weird.”

“You can grab me arm, if you like,” Louis offers.

“Yeah? That allowed?”

“I’ll allow it,” Louis says, smiling playfully at him.

Liam grips him by the forearm, tight. It hurts a little, but that's fine by Louis. He likes that kind of hurt.

 

/

 

Liam awkwardly leans against the counter as Lottie finishes ringing him up, avoiding his left side. The tattoo looks great; he gazed at it for a full half-minute in the mirror as it wept little dribbles of blood before he let Lottie apply the ointment and bandage him up.

He tips her big, but not so big that she'll give him a hard time about it. She does flick her eyes up at him in amusement, but all she says is thank you.

Louis is cooling his heels out front. He didn't have enough change to put more time on the meter, so his plan was to hop in and pull away the second he catches sight of a parking officer, then circle back for Liam.

“So, you and Louis,” Lottie says as she staples his receipts.

Liam looks up at her. “Me and Louis?”

Her light eyes dance. “You seem tight?”

“Oh!” he says. “Yeah, I mean, he's been great, I…”

She hands him the receipt.

“I was sort of lost when I got there,” Liam says. “I'm still sort of lost, or I would be without him. I reckon Simon bit me off more than I could chew.”

Lottie nods. “He did that to Louis straight off, too. We all worried about him... we'd get emails from him at the oddest hours.”

“So he gets it.”

“Absolutely,” Lottie says. “He's a great, um. Great person to have in your corner. He's like a -- what's those sort of fearless little things that kill snakes?”

Liam knits his brow, thinking.

“They live in India. Oh, oh, mongoose!”

He smiles at her. “Your brother’s a mongoose?”

“He is! He's a mongoose.” She smiles back. “In case you've got snakes around… I figure you have quite a lot of them, working in television.”

“Always.”

 

/

 

Their first stop is a pub that Louis used to frequent when he lived in this neighborhood. It’s one of those holes in the wall where you have to teeter down a long flight of stairs as soon as you open the front door, and then are released into a damp underground space, stuffed with people.

There’s a live band stuffed into the dark corner, playing loudly and sort of tunelessly. Louis turns to Liam and says something to him that he can’t hear, his light eyes twinkly in the low light.

“What?” Liam says, leaning in. Someone pushes at him so they can get by and he takes Louis by the waist, guiding him backward toward a little pocket of privacy against the wall.

“I said what are you trying to drink,” Louis yells over the music.

“Oh, anything!”

“Just want some rail drinks? I was going to get some shots.”

“Whatever you want,” Liam says. His tattoo twinges in pain under the plastic wrap.

“Alright, we can start off with a round of shots,” Louis says, smiling. “See where the night takes us.”

 

/

 

The night takes them to a second round of shots. At this point they’re good and sloshed, leaning on each other and bantering bawdily with the bartender, who Louis apparently went to uni with. They’re so absorbed in being stupid that it takes Liam a while to notice a really fit girl next to them keeps looking at him.

He assumes she’s annoyed by how loud they’re being, but when he catches her eye, she beams and comes over.

“Hi there,” she says, extending a hand. She sounds Geordie. Liam takes it and gives her a warm shake.

He instinctively leans away from the hubbub of the bar, so she can introduce herself. She puts a hand on his shoulder and gets her lipsticked mouth close to his ear.

“I'm Vi,” she says. “I think I know who you are.”

Liam feels Louis’ gaze on the side of his face.

“Yeah?” he says, flattered.

“Liam from the telly? ITV?”

“Shit, yeah!” he says. “I hardly ever get recognized.”

Vi smiles, flashing a mouth of very white teeth. She must use those strips.

“You fill in for the little bloke,” she says.

“Right, yeah.” Liam sips his beer. “Every Monday now, actually.”

“Aw, yeah? Tight.”

“Buy you a drink?”

“Who's this?” Louis interrupts. He sounds drunk; not for slurring, but in the rather abrupt way he says it.

“Vi,” Liam says, stepping back so they can shake hands. “She watches the six, apparently.”

“I do, yeah,” she says. “My dad got me in the habit when I was a kid. I like to know what's going on.”

“This is Louis, he produces that show,” Liam says, proudly.

She squints at him and leans in, elbows on the bar. The band has started up again and the din around them has risen. “Wait, seriously?”

“Aye,” Louis says with a smile. “Every weeknight. That's my show.”

“So what’s a producer do?”

“We write the scripts, all that.”

“Wow,” she says, chuffed. “That is so cool.”

 

/

 

Vi does, however, gravitate back to Liam. The pull of his semi-notable face is too much.

Louis doesn't mind. It isn't like he's interested in her, beyond the very basics: she's fit and it'd be nice if she liked him, because that reflects well on him. But it's alright if he's not her type. He's not everyone's type. His appeal has more depth than breadth.

He knows that the net it does cast has at least, in some way, snagged Liam under it. Even if Liam is straight as an arrow, there is still something he finds compelling and attractive about Louis. Even if he never acts on it. Even if nothing ever happens, Louis can clutch this knowledge to his chest.

Because Louis isn't stupid, and he isn't arrogant, and he's more prone to fatalistic thinking than wishful thinking, and yet he feels it. He feels it in how Liam touches him. It's different. Liam roughhouses Niall, too, when they play football, and it's like they're brothers. There's a carelessness to his touch.

Every touch Liam gives Louis is careful, even the most sloppy and casual ones. Even as he's shoving Louis in the arm because Louis cracked wise, or taking him by the shoulder to move him out of the way. He's tender.

It's true that none of this is, like, a fact. Louis is a newsman, he likes facts. The special way Liam touches him isn't independently verifiable or a matter of public record. And yet he feels the secret truth of this tenderness more deeply than he feels half the facts he knows.

Louis watches him talk to Vi. He can't tell what's going on behind the noble brow and the dark eyes. He sees flirting; he sees Liam, rusty at this, but trying hard not to be. Maybe they'll go home together. He hopes not.

Louis is a little drunk now, and says to the barman, “It's easier to just be friends wiv people, innit?”

Patrick nods at him. “Er, sure. Context?”

“Noo,” Louis says softly, and sips his water so he doesn't get a hangover. “You can't have any. It’s a secret.”

“Alright, Tommo,” Patrick says in that indulgent tone people use with him sometimes.

“Don't _alright_ me.”

“Okay.”

“You aren’t even listening,” Louis says, and puts his head down on the cool wood of the bar. “Bastard.”

A moment later, there's that touch again, tender and lingering. A hand on the back of his neck.

“Wanna go?” Liam says to him.

Louis sits up, and Liam's hand travels down the nape of his neck and settles on his back. He shivers. Liam's hand falls away.

“Let’s,” Louis says, and fishes in his pocket for a crumpled tenner to drop on the bar.


	10. Chapter 10

Louis sobers up some when they walk into the crisp air. It's cold out, now. They head down the bustling street, drunkenly bumping into other people and each other, shoulder checking each other as a joke. Liam sends Louis pinballing into an old man by accident and apologizes so profusely that Louis has to walk away from them so he can crack up laughing.

“What happened to Vi?” Louis says when the crowds have thinned out. He isn't sure where they're headed, but he's he one leading them, so maybe he ought to figure it out. “Not your type?”

“Nah, she was exactly my type,” Liam says with a hollow laugh. “Just still not up to it, I reckon.”

Relieved, Louis turns to him and starts walking backwards. “You up for an adventure, then?” he says, flashing him a grin.

“Careful,” Liam says, and reaches out to gently tug on his sleeve. “There's loose bricks.”

“I'm fine...”

“No, you're drunker than me. What sort of adventure?”

“Dunno!” He turns the right way around again. “You've got to let the adventure find you, is the thing.”

“D’you have cigs?”

They stop for a smoke, swaying under an awning. Louis notices Liam takes pains to not blow smoke in his face, despite that the wind is working against him.

“You liked that she recognized you,” Louis says.

“What?” Liam says, playing innocent. “I didn't care.”

“You did, you _loved_ it.”

“I mean, it's nice for our work to get noticed.”

“Please, you liked the famous bit.”

“Wouldn't everyone?”

“‘Course. I'm just taking the piss."

Louis ends up leading them to his old flat out of muscle memory. He steps back into the street a few strides, staring up at the building. It's crumbling even worse than he remembered.

“Old as shit, this place,” he says. “Me and my flatmates used to joke, like, Jack the Ripper hid out here.”

Liam laughs. “Where'd you live?”

Louis points at the top floor. “All the way up. Six fifteen. Used to go up on the roof all the time, smoke and smash things.”

It was a bad time for him, when he lived here. He used to think the look of the building was a good picture of what was happening in his head, like the bloke who kept the rotting portrait in his attic. Stained carpet in the hall, broken flickering lights, peeling wallpaper.

“How’d you get up?” Liam says.

“Fire escape.”

“Can we get up now, you think?”

Louis looks at him in pleased surprise. “The ladder’s not down.”

“Think outside the box, here.”

Louis laughs. “You want to go up on the roof this bad?”

“Adventure!”

Louis watches as Liam heads into the alley beside the building, his shoulders square with purpose. He hurries after him.

Liam points. “I can get that down.”

“It's like two meters in the air.”

Liam turns to him. He's all funny from liquor, flushed and sparkly-eyed. “Since when are you a quitter?”

“I'm not!”

“I'll boost you up,” Liam says. “You can pull it down.”

“Boost me?” Louis pauses. “Why don't I boost you?”

Liam’s brow knits. “‘Cos you're littler.”

“Excuse me! You are barely taller than me, mate!” Louis knows this isn't true, but he says it anyway.

“ _Barely_? Anyway, you weigh less, too.”

“Says who?”

“Says -- I can tell by looking at you! You're what, ten stone?”

“ _Liam!”_

“What?”

“Maybe I'm dense,” Louis challenges.

Liam grins, his eyes crinkling. “How much d’you bench?”

“How much do I _bench_?”

“Yeah.”

“None of your business!”

Liam gives him an amused look that's evident even in the darkness of the alley. Louis huffs a sigh.

“Fine,” he says. “You can boost me.”

Liam squats under the ladder and laces his hands. Louis approaches him with a little anxiety, but no real fear. He places his dirty Van into Liam’s callused palms, and Liam lifts him with a groan.

“Not as light as you thought?” Louis teases him.

“No, pretty much exactly what I expected,” Liam says, sounding a little strained. “I’m just not, like, the Rock.”

Louis goes for the bottom of the ladder and doesn't quite make it. He heart lurches as he tips forward, but Liam grabs him hard and steadies him. “Got you.”

Louis leans back and looks at him, secure in his arms. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

Liam nods, his arm wrapped tight around Louis’ waist.

They try again. Louis scrambles all over Liam as he tries to get a perfect angle of approach. Liam protests weakly.

“You're like a little _goat,_ up there!” he says, after Louis nearly sticks a thumb in his eye.

“Got it!” Louis shouts as he seizes on the last rung of the ladder. Liam gets out from under him and his weight pulls it down with a rusty clatter.

Louis lets himself drop to the ground, rolls a bit and bounces to his feet, the muscles behind his shins stinging.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Success.”

Liam gives him a high-five. “To petty crimes.”

“To petty crimes, with Tommo and Payno. I'll do you a favor and ignore that you called me a goat.”

“In hindsight, I meant it like GOAT,” Liam says, laughing. “Greatest at pulling ladders down.”

“The Beckham of pulling ladders down, aye.”

“I'm actually interviewing him in a few weeks,” Liam says, as he starts climbing. “Or, like, I'm doing one segment with him where we go around his house. Sports is doing the other bits.”

From down on the ground, Louis gapes at him in annoyance. “Fuck off,” he says. “Lucky bastard. I might stop in to meet him.”

“Haven't you?”

“No, he never comes on when I'm working!”

“You should come ‘round, then, definitely.” Liam gets done climbing, and Louis follows quickly behind him. “‘Less you've got plans?”

“Which day?”

“Saturday.”

“No standing Saturday plans,” Louis says, and scrambles up onto the fire escape.

Liam smiles and starts up the stairs.

“No upcoming dates?” he calls behind him.

“No dates,” Louis says, and he coughs. His lungs have shrunk up in the cold, and there's smoke lingering in them.

He pauses and looks up at Liam, who's just a flash of various colors through the slats.

“Good,” Liam says.

Louis pauses for a brief moment, then continues up.

 

/

 

“London’s beautiful,” Louis murmurs as they look out over the city.

Liam glances over at him. There's a wistful look on his face. He's again struck by how delicate Louis’ features are, the boyish vulnerability of him.

“Sometimes I still can't believe I'm here,” Liam says, rubbing his hand over his stubbly cheeks. “Like -- I was just a headshot on Simon’s desk, and he picked me, and now I'm here.”

Louis nods slowly. “I know what you mean.”

He turns away from the city, leaning against the roof ledge, looking down. Liam watches him.

“I almost didn't come here, when they offered me a producer spot,” he says. “I -- this was like five years ago, about. Almost turned ‘im down.”

Liam waits for the why, not speaking or moving.

“My mum was sick,” Louis says with difficulty, his voice catching. “And, um… We lost her, actually. And I -- you know, I've got all these siblings, and -- I get this call from Paul, like, hey…”

He trails off. Liam draws nearer to him and wraps an arm around him, squeezing him. He isn't sure if that's what Louis wants, but he does it instinctively, anyway.

“Louis, I'm so sorry...”

Louis shakes his head. “Anyway, I was like -- I can't take it, I can't _leave_. Lottie and me stepdad made me. I fought them hard on it. They got me with the -- no, you have to, ‘cos it's what she wanted. So… in the end, I went. For like, two years, I went back on my days off. ‘Til things had settled.”

He rubs at the bridge of his nose.

“I must still be drunk,” he says drily. “I don't, um -- I don't get into this. Nobody but Niall, ‘cos he was -- you know. Around. We’d gone to uni together, so… Maybe it's just, like, being up here on this fuckin’ roof again...”

Liam guides Louis over to a ratty couch that sits by the door of the little stairwell entrance. They collapse into it, neither of them seeming to care that it's probably full of mildew. They sit splayed over each other in comfortable intimacy, sort of brotherly but sort of not.

Liam likes Louis’ weight near him and on him. He likes the feel of his body. He wants to touch him more, and for longer. It hurts to want it. It's a sickly sort of hurt, low in his chest and high in his stomach, like his guts are all tangled up in each other.

“Only get into it with me if you want to,” Liam says to him, studying him. “You haven't got to.”

Louis looks at him. His face is so open and vulnerable it makes Liam’s breath stick in his throat. He's never seen him like this before. The moment unfurls between them with hesitant, fragile newness.

“I want to,” Louis says.

Liam runs his hand up Louis’ shoulder, gently squeezing the muscle that runs under there.

He starts to move away, and Louis stops him, lightly touching his fingertips to Liam’s wristbone.

Liam leaves his hand where it is, and gives Louis his full and undivided attention.

 

/

 

They end up talking for hours. Louis tells Liam all about his mum, about his whole family -- dozens of funny little anecdotes that he sketches in sharp detail with the precision of a good storyteller. Liam loves listening to him. He watches Louis’ hands as he talks, how they dance around in the darkness.

Liam’s still sort of drunk, himself. So when Louis turns it around and starts asking him questions, words just tumble on out of him until he realizes much too late that he's been peeling his skin aside to show Louis the throbbing wounds he usually keeps covered.

But Louis doesn't pity him, he's not repelled. If anything he looks relieved to be met in the dark by Liam. Relieved that Liam knows what the dark is.

Liam feels naked and utterly exposed, but it's alright. He wants to let Louis see him.

By three in the morning they're still talking on the couch, teeth chattering, huddled close for warmth but too wide-eyed and wired on each other's company to even suggest going home.

“This is mental,” Louis finally says, looking at his phone to check the time, his face illuminated by the little screen. Liam can see now that he'd cried earlier. There’s tracks down his cheeks. “I've kept you up so late, and you’ve just worked like a million days in a row.”

“You kept _me_ up? You’re the one who’s on tomorrow.”

Louis laughs a raspy little laugh. “Alright, we’re both morons, agreed.”

Liam realizes suddenly that his tattoo is aching. He’d been so absorbed, he didn't notice.

Louis keeps an eye out for cops as Liam climbs down, then follows nimbly after him.

“What should we do?” Louis says, and glances at him. “Uber home? I s’pose Lottie’s got to pick me up tomorrow so I can come get my car.” He jingles his keys in his hand. “She's going to make me get brunch with her at that posh place I hate.”

“The price you pay for a night of trespassing,” Liam says, slinging his arm around Louis as they walk down the deserted streets.

He drops it after a minute, when they pass a florist’s that has a display of flowers lying out.

Louis sees he's been distracted by something and stops in tandem with him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Liam says. “Just these are pretty.”

Louis laughs. “And?”

“And? They're just laying out! Don't you sort of just want to…”

He glances over at Louis, who's glowing in the early morning lamplight from the street, white teeth flashing at him in amusement.

Liam picks up a rose and brings it with him. Louis laughs.

“Trespassing _and_ petty theft,” he says. “Payno, I'm honestly impressed.”

Liam wordlessly hands him the flower, and Louis looks at him like he's lost the plot.

“Take it,” he says. “I've just realized I don't have vases. I didn't bring any when we moved, they break so easy.”

“Like I've got vases!” Louis protests.

“You do, don't you?”

“So -- I just put one rose in a vase somewhere? What if I have someone over? Oh, aye, that's me one rose, me mate Liam gave it to me, ‘cos I won his season of _The Bachelor_ \--”

Liam laughs hard.

“I'm the fuckin’ -- the furry bloke in that Disney movie, got me rose in a jar --”

“Take it!”

He isn't sure why it's so important that he put this rose in Louis’ hands, but he’s really sort of delighted when Louis takes it from him. His heart gets fluttery like it did before.

Louis curiously twirls it in his fingers, then sniffs it.

“Roses aren't very smelly,” Liam puts in.

“Oh, thank you, mister botanist.”

“I mean, I don't want you disappointed in my choice.”

“Should have taken some baby’s breath.”

“Really? You _like_ how that smells?”

“It's nice! Like talcum…”

 

/

 

On Tuesday Louis wakes up anxious and hungover.

Under the sheets, he makes a tight fist and then relaxes his hand, breathing out slowly. He always sleeps late, so he’s got blackout curtains, but harsh milky light streams in around the edges of them. He hears a dustcart outside, beeping as it backs into the alley.

It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Liam with the things he told him. It’s the opposite: that Liam was so sweet, so understanding, so open.

If he catches feelings for Liam, real ones that go beyond their flirting, beyond the weird connection they share, ones that Liam doesn’t reciprocate -- it would be the same. He’d be sweet about it. And Louis would be humiliated beyond belief.

Louis tells himself he’s an idiot as he rolls a joint and takes it downstairs. He tells himself again, as he sticks two Scotch pancakes in the toaster and his orange tomcat Godfrey hops up onto his shoulders.

Godfrey is very doglike, which is nice, because he'd originally wanted a dog but works too much to have one.

“Hullo,” Louis says aloud to him, giving him a little kiss behind the ear. “Your dad’s having a difficult morning.”

“Mrow,” Godfrey replies.

He feeds the cat and then smokes the entire joint sitting on his kitchen floor in his briefs and a t-shirt, catching up on Twitter, eating his pancakes plain.

When he thinks he’s caught up on the news of the day (all mostly bad, as 2016 has proven itself to be so far) he says in his group chat with Oli, Calvin, and their friend Max, “Lads, can we go out tonight?”

Almost immediately, they text back in the affirmative.

Louis leans against a kitchen cabinet, finishing his joint. So they’ll go out to some club and he’ll bring a girl home, and he’ll eat her pussy and smell her perfume, and he won’t have to think about Liam’s hands on his waist or his nice smile. Win win win all around.

Godfrey winds around him, rubbing his chin on him.

“I’ve got this,” Louis mutters, scritching him under the collar. “It’s sorted.”

 

/

 

Liam comes in late in the evening to write up a break in the Rolf Harris case for the website. He and Jesy are having some banter when Harry and Niall pop up behind him.

Harry puts his hands over his eyes, first thing. “Guess who,” he says.

“Harry, you know I’ve just heard your voice in my IFB yesterday and every night last week.”

Harry drops his hands. “Ruin my fun, why don't you?” he jokes.

Liam turns around, grinning.

“Want to come out wit’ us?” Niall says, leaning on the back of Jesy’s chair. She flicks him on the arm, and he feigns being terribly injured by this.

“Definitely,” Liam says, even though he’s exhausted from the night before. “What’s the plan?”

Harry sweeps his thick hair back off his face. “Drinks. We aren’t sure where yet.”

“Louis too?”

Niall shakes his head.

“That’s right,” Harry says, in faint amusement. “He wants to go full hetero with his, er, buffers.”

“Oh, leave him be,” Niall says genially. “He’s allowed t’ have other friends.”

“I don’t care, it’s just funny how predictable he is.”

Liam barely follows this, but he finds himself a little on edge, like there’s something that's relevant to him hidden somewhere in this exchange. He just can’t ferret out what it is.

“‘Funny’,” Niall repeats with air quotes.

“You think I’m being petty,” Harry says to him. “Really I don’t care.”

Niall grins at him.

“Niall!”

“So did you want to leave, like, now?” Liam interrupts.

They shrug in tandem.

“That's works,” Harry says. “If you’ve finished… ‘Cos we both have.”

“Give me one minute.”

They run into Louis and his boys in the parking lot. He seems surprised to see the three of them together without him.

“Payno,” he calls over as he pops his trunk and throws a gym bag in. Calvin leans on Louis’ car, smoking and glancing between them.

“Yeah?”

“How's the tattoo healing?”

Liam lifts up his shirt. “Good! Feeling better already.”

Harry comes around him so he can see. “Oh, shit… that's so cool,” he says.

“Lottie did that one!” Louis exclaims proudly. “All her.”

“Oh, right, she's certified now,” Niall says.

Louis comes over to them, despite that his group is clearly waiting on him. He takes a closer look at Liam’s ribcage, bending over. “Yeah, you ought to let her do your first one, Nialler.”

“Eh, I’m alright.”

“You don't trust my sister?” Louis’ cool hand goes to Liam's waist so he can hold him steady as he looks. Liam flinches, but then leans into his touch.

“I don't want one just yet.”

“When's yet? You've been putting me off since uni. Just get summat small.”

Niall flaps a hand at him, and him and Louis have a half-hearted little tickle fight. Then Louis turns his attention to Harry, who's absorbed in his phone.

“No Grimmy tonight?” he says.

Harry looks up. “No,” he says mildly.

“Uh-huh,” Louis says.

Liam observes this with curiosity. He and Niall make passing eye contact, and Niall lifts his eyebrows.

“I don't go out with Nick all the time,” Harry says.

“More lately.”

“Yeah?... And?”

“I'm just saying.”

Louis has tensed up, now. He's lit up yellowy by the harsh lights that run along the back of the building. Calvin, still smoking, rolls his eyes.

“It's not really your business.”

“I made _one_ comment,” Louis says.

“Your comments are sort of loaded,” Harry says. His voice has a weird quality; he's not angry or cold, but just freakishly dispassionate, like he's Siri.

“What was loaded, mate?”

“Oh, Louis... I can't walk you through every sound you make.”

Niall lets out a little sigh. “Can you two row later? I'd like to get out of here --”

“No one's rowing,” Harry says, but he strides away to go sit in the car.

“Sorry,” Louis says to no one in particular.

“You don't have the right t’ get hissy if he wants to go out with Nick,” Niall says, jingling his keys in his hand.

“I'm not bloody bein’ _hissy_! Christ, alright -- go enjoy your night, lads, I'll go enjoy mine.” Louis pauses, and his voice is different and much more tender when he says, “Tattoo looks great, Liam.”

“Oh, thanks. She really did an amazing job.”

“I'll let her know,” Louis says, and gives them a thumbs up as he walks away.

“Fuck’s sake,” Niall mutters as they get in his car. Harry took the back, so Liam slides in shotgun and glances over at Niall, who's biting his lip as he gets his car in gear.

“That wasn't my fault at all,” Harry says, leaning forward. “He started up with me.”

“It doesn't matter, don't worry about it,” Niall says. “Let’s go have fun now.” He doesn't talk as he pulls out onto the road, and then he says, “It wasn't, though. He was in one of his moods.”

Harry nods. “I dunno _why_.”

Liam clears his throat, and they look at him.

“Last night we got pissed, and we like, went around and talked for a long time -- he told me about his mum, some sort of tough stuff like that, so --”

“Oh,” Harry says. His face falls.

Liam shrugs. The glow of streetlights and neon signs pass over his face as they roll along.

Harry fiddles with a pendant he's wearing. “So, now _I'm_ the arsehole,” he mutters.

Niall shakes his head. “Nah. He's an adult, he can control how he takes his emotions out.”

“Hey,” Liam says, turning to face Harry, who glances up. “Who broke up with who, if that’s not too personal?”

Harry laughs. “It was mutual. We sat down and had a big talk.”

“Oh, alright. I was about to talk from experience, but I've never actually done it like that, so...”

“They're weirdos,” Niall says. “I've never done that either.”

“I mean, we do work together,” Harry says. “So it was worth it to talk it out. Especially ‘cos a lot of the reason we broke up is that we worked together.”

“I work with Ellie, don't I?”

“You also didn't, y’know… _date_ her, technically.”

Niall cuts his eyes at him.

“It's the truth!”

“I really think you ought to give that another shot,” Liam says. “Going off what you said the other day. Sounds like she wants you to.”

“Oh, it’s so fuckin’ complicated, lads. You know, we're friends now, all that.”

“Ed isn't going to forget about it either way,” Harry says. “So you might as well go for it.”

“Bloody Christ, I'm gettin’ it left, right and center tonight.”

Harry grins. “‘Cos you and Ed were so close before?”

“We used t’ play pool a lot! And I think he’s mostly forgiven me, now, anyway.”

“Well, what’s the problem, then?”

Niall grunts and doesn’t say anything.

They pull down a cobblestone high street. Niall slows down so he doesn't hit any of the yuppies who are crossing the road, on their way in and out of various pubs.

“Anyway,” Harry says. “Thanks, Liam.”

“For what?”

He gestures in a self-deprecating way. “Just, y’know, clarifying.”

Liam laughs. “Right. Don't tell him I said anything.”

Harry puts his hand up like he's being sworn in. “Off the record.”

“Makes sense he's goin’ out with that crew, tonight, too,” Niall says, and he puts his hazards on so he can park. “If he --”

“Niall,” Harry says like a warning.

Liam observes Niall, who's staring into his side mirror, now.

“Nothin’,” Niall says brightly. “Just rambling.”

 

/

 

They get a table at the posh pub they end up at; Niall and Liam get pints and Harry gets a glass of wine, which Niall pretends to examine like he's a sommelier. Harry laughs.

“Please give me that,” he says.

Niall does an exaggerated inhale. “I'm snifting it.”

“You can't _snift_ wine.”

“Yes you can! There’s, like, snifters --”

“A snifter is a brandy glass!”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Liam, back me up.”

“I actually have no idea.”

“Back me up anyway.”

“Alright,” Liam says cheerfully, “backing you up.”

Niall chuckles and hands Harry his wine back.

They get along very well, the three of them. Liam sort of wishes Louis were here; he tends to inject a sharper levity into any situation. He's grown to like how he never quite knows what Louis is going to do or say.

But he really enjoys what genuinely good guys Harry and Niall are. He’s used to the casual douchiness of other sports reporters, the male posturing, the nasty bravado. At Four, Liam sometimes aped their douchiness badly, like it was a too-tight jacket he was trying to squeeze into.

Neither Harry or Niall really seem to be trying to prove anything, least of all their own masculinity. They're as comfortable talking about bad telly (Harry instructs Liam to start watching _Vanderpump Rules,_ because he thinks he'd love it) as they are about sports.

“I really like ITV,” Liam says mushily when he's finished his beer and is a little buzzed. “You lot are great.”

“Good,” Niall says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him in for a friendly nuzzle. “We like you too, lad.”

“We are like a family, really,” Harry says, and he looks woebegone for a moment. “Can't get that at the Beeb, or Sky.”

“Especially the Beeb.”

“God, yeah. They're so big. I'd feel sort of lost.”

Liam is struck by a pang of sadness for Zayn.

“It's actually ‘cos of Louis that I ever came here,” Niall says. “He came to ITV, and Harry was already there, and a few months in Louis rang me up and was like, we’re looking for a summer photog, winter editor, what’re you doin’ lately? And the answer was a whole lot of nothin’, I was just freelancing for football teams. So here I am.”

“Niall’s a lifer,” Harry says with a warm little smile, nodding slowly. “He's got it all planned.”

“Yeah, they'll bury me under t’ car park.”

 

/

 

When they're about two drinks in, Niall spots someone he knows and goes off all Irish to say hello. Harry turns to Liam.

“Liam.”

“Yes Harry.”

“Can I read your palm?” he says. “I’ve just taken a course on it.”

Liam happily extends his hands across the table.

“What’s your sign?” Harry says, taking them in his own and studying them. His are warm and soft; well-moisturized. “Oh, no, don’t tell me… you’re a Virgo like Niall, that’s right… You’re very Virgo-y.”

“That a good thing?”

“Depends,” Harry says, and winks. “No, I like Virgos. They’re a grounding presence.”

He drags a finger over Liam’s palm. Liam isn’t used to being touched this deliberately by other men, as least not men as good-looking and charming as Harry. It’s intimidating, but nice.

Harry taps a finger in the center of his palm. “You’ve got a low heart line,” he says. “You fall in love easily.”

Liam breathes out a laugh. “Right.”

“And it touches your life line. I think that means you get your heart broken easily, too.”

Liam mimes like he’s going to yank his hand away, and they laugh.

“You’re creative, but you think realistically. You’re good at, like, adapting.”

“You got all that from my hand?”

Harry grins. “There may be a bit of confirmation bias here, since I do know you.”

“Aww, cheater! I was about to be so impressed.”

“Hey, it's free, isn't it?”

“You ought to do Niall next.”

“I keep asking, he won't let me. Your fate line’s telling me you’re a self-made man.”

“Maybe? Sort of. I did put myself through uni.”

“You’re from Wolverhampton?”

“Right.”

Harry rubs a thumb over one of the lines. “Used to make cars there,” he says, squinting like he’s thinking.

“Iron, steel, cars. That's all pretty much gone, now.”

“They just lost Goodyear a few years ago, right?”

Liam tips his head so Harry will look at him. “Hi, are you interviewing me?”

Harry laughs. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re good at this, was all I was going to say.”

Harry smiles warmly. “I like to ease into it.”

“I felt eased.”

Niall returns to them, scooting into the booth, and Harry drops his hands.

“Oh, you doing that fingery shit again?” Niall says knowingly.

“ _Fingery shit_? I think it's called palmistry.”

“He says I’m ‘very Virgo-y’,” Liam reports, much to Niall’s amusement.

Harry drops his mouth in mock offense. “‘Scuse me, Liam! I’m trying to let you in on the wonders of the universe here! Who was that at the bar, Niall?”

“Peter Lisser’s brother, Fred. You remember Peter at all, Payno?” Niall says, nudging him. “Worst sports freelancer ever?”

“Oh, Peter! Fucking Peter,” Liam says, laughing. “Fifteen minutes late to everything.”

“Climbing over everyone's cords, kicking me sticks out from under me camera -- _oh, sorry lads, sorry_ , _‘scuse me_ \--”

“‘Where's the locker room? West end of the pitch? Which way’s west? What pitch? Where am I?’”

“‘What's the keeper’s name again? What d’you mean it's on the back of his jersey? Haven't you heard, mate, I'm Peter! I dunno how to read!”

Liam laughs hard into his beer.

“Sweet bloke though,” Niall says.

“Oh, yeah.”

 

/

 

They pubcrawl a bit, and when they’re leaving their last stop of the night, Niall’s phone rings.

“What’s up?” he says into it, and the three of them stop in unison. Liam puts his foot up on a bike rack to tie his shoe.

Niall squints. “I can’t hear you. No, I know, but I can’t -- hold on, where’re you at? Okay.”

He goes quiet again, then mouths _‘Louis_ ’ to them. Harry folds his arms.

“Maybe. I'll text you,” Niall says, and rings off. “D’we want to go to this club they’re at?”

Liam valiantly blinks through his exhaustion. “I'm game.”

“For a bit,” Harry says. “Like, a half hour.”

“He sounded wasted,” Niall says. “Might want to drag him home if we can.”

“You’re alright to drive?” Harry says, and stumbles tipsily as he says it, bumping into Liam. Liam rights him.

“I’m fine, lad, I only had the one beer ages ago,” Niall assures him.

When they’re all in the car, Liam drums his fingers on his leg and says to Niall, “How wasted?”

Niall shrugs. “Typical Friday Louis.”

“But on a Tuesday,” Harry mutters from the backseat.

Niall casually rests his hand on the back of Liam’s seat and leans over so he can see to back the car out. “We’ve all got steam t’ blow off, sometimes.”

“On a Tuesday?”

Niall hums a little tune and doesn’t respond.

 

/

 

Everyone in the club is packed toward the front of the warehouse, in a sort of sad Tuesday way. Niall spots a shitfaced Oli and goes over to talk to him; Liam and Harry stake out seats at the bar, which is mostly deserted save for a constant trickle of people wandering out of the crowd, refreshing their drinks and going back.

Liam tips his head back and stares at the indigo lights throbbing above him.

“Good you don’t have to work tomorrow,” Harry says.

“Ahh, I might go in anyway,” he says. “I have some things to catch up on.”

Harry touches his arm.

“Can I tell you something? And feel free to tell me to fuck off if I’m being, like, fake deep.”

Liam laughs, surprised. “Sure, anything.”

Harry turns to face him, elbows on the bar. He looks pensive. Liam waits.

“It’d be alright if this was too much for you,” he says. “If Simon is throwing too much at you…”

“Oh, no,” Liam assures him, without really stopping to consider it. “No, I, um…”

He trails off.

“I’m alright,” he says carefully. “For the moment.”

Harry nods. “Just understand we all know how much pressure you’ll be under.”

“Right,” Liam says, growing queasy.

“Virgos thrive under pressure, though,” Harry assures him. “Amy Winehouse was a Virgo.”

“Harry! She’s _dead!_ ”

“Right… I’m sorry, that’s a shit example. Beyoncé! Beyoncé is a Virgo.”

“Much better.”

Liam looks out into the swirling dark crowd. He isn’t even looking for Louis, really, but his eyes find him anyway.

He’s dancing with a girl at the edge of the crush of people, grinding on her. She’s dark-haired and short and looks a little gone. Louis looks even more gone. His eyes are dark and unfocused; he pistons his hips against her like a man possessed. His fringe is piecey with sweat and sticking to his forehead.

Liam gets a funny feeling in his gut watching Louis’ hips move to the thumping bass.

And then Louis feels his eyes on him, and he looks up. Their eyes bore into each other, even though the room is badly lit and smoky and Liam can hardly see his hand in front of his face. He sees Louis perfectly.

He beckons him over. Louis takes a beat to process this, then shrugs in the direction of the girl. Liam beckons him again. Some deep-seated instinct tells him Louis will obey.

He does; he stumbles through the crowd, first, and finds the girl’s friends to make sure they don’t lose track of her. And then he comes over, appearing from the shadows, flushed and loose-hipped and flirty-eyed. Liam’s heart speeds up.

“Hello boys,” Louis slurs, collapsing between them against the bar, spreading his arms over their backs and around their necks. Liam’s skin tingles and flushes warm where his hand lands.

“Hullo,” Harry says a little hoarsely. “You ready to go home?”

Louis drops his forehead against the bar with a clunk. “I’m n -- I’m -- hol’ on… I’m spinny…”

“Don't throw up,” Liam says, clapping him bracingly.

Louis groans. Liam starts rubbing his back. He's hot from dancing, and his shirt is damp with sweat.

Liam motions to the bartender for a water, then nudges Louis and pushes the glass in front of him. “Drink.”

“If I drink I’ll throw up,” Louis protests, but he drinks anyway, leaning against Harry.

“Want to go home?” Harry says, studying him.

Niall appears behind them. “You just say you're gonna throw up?” he says, swatting Louis on the arse. Louis laughs weakly. “Do it in the street and not me car, please.”

“Hey, I can take him home,” Liam offers. “I live closer to him than either of you, and I don't work tomorrow. I can just get us an Uber.”

Harry and Niall look at each other. Harry inclines his head as if to say ‘we _do_ have to be in tomorrow’, but remains silent. Niall nods at him anyway, as if he did speak.

“Aye, if you don't mind,” Niall says.

“Nah, not at all.”

Liam slips his arm around Louis’ waist to steer him out. Louis presses his forehead to Liam’s shoulder and lets out a soft sigh.

Out front they run into Calvin, who's leaning on a lamppost and smoking.

“Louis,” he says. “You good?”

Harry shakes his head as he lets himself into Niall’s car.

“Fine,” Louis mutters, and then maneuvers out from under Liam’s arm and goes off to vomit in the alley. Niall jingles his keys loudly over the sound of this.

“You lot leaving so soon?” Calvin says.

“It's Tuesday,” Niall says with a laugh. “We've got work tomorrow. So does he.”

“Y’know, we didn't force him to drink,” Calvin says, ashing his cigarette. “He dragged _us_ out tonight.”

Niall puts his hands up. “Didn't say you did, lad. Don't worry about it.” He turns to Liam and claps him on the shoulder. “Night, Payno. Tell Louis we said goodnight, if he's still conscious.”

“Will do, yeah. See you Thursday.”

“Bye Liam!” Harry calls tipsily out the window, giving him a little wave.

Liam grins and waves back, then goes to find Louis, who's bent over with one hand pressed to the brick wall.

“You alright to head out?” Liam says, yawning and reaching out to stroke his back again.

“Maybe,” Louis says softly. His voice is hoarse, and he's trembly. “Yeah, can we…”

“Already called an Uber.”

“Beautiful.”

 

/

 

“Liam,” Louis murmurs, drawing a smiley face in the mist on the car window.

Liam glances over at him in the dark. “What's up, mate?”

Louis’ eyes go unfocused and he shakes his head. “Shit. I forgot.”

Their Uber driver coughs as they pull up to a light.

“Tell me tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

 

/

 

Louis fumbles fruitlessly for his keys for at least a minute before Liam takes over looking.

“Arse,” Louis says softly.

Liam looks at him in the dark, trying to focus on his light eyes. He's still a little tipsy himself. “What?”

“Arse pocket.”

Liam slips his fingers into Louis’ back pocket. He tries not to think about the curve of Louis’ bum under his hand. Nothing wrong with noticing it. It's just most blokes don't have one that nice.

Most boys don't smell this good or make Liam’s heart tingle in his chest, either. He actually hasn't felt like this about a bloke since his personal trainer a year ago, who was beautiful, with dancing light eyes and a sweet laugh. Liam started feeling so weird and nervous around him that he quit going to that gym.

He told Sophia about this, wondering aloud if he was being a homophobe, because the trainer was sort of flamboyant and wristy. Sophia had laughed and said, “Sounds more like you had a little mancrush on him, honestly,” and then made him come be in a dog filter Snapchat with her.

Louis’ cat greets them at the door. Liam bends to pet him as Louis staggers around.

“I reckon this is the first time I've gotten to meet him,” Liam says happily.

“He takes a bit,” Louis says, yanking a sock off and tossing it with abandon. “To warm up to people… he's prickly.”

Liam scritches Godfrey under the chin. “Wary.”

“Right,” Louis mutters.

Godfrey is purring and rubbing against Liam’s shins, now.

“Likes you, though,” Louis says with a crooked grin.

Liam smiles. He notices that his rose is in the breakfast nook on the table, not in a vase but in a bottle of Heineken that Louis has carefully peeled the label off of.

Louis pukes some more in his upstairs toilet while Liam kneels next to him, stroking his hair. He likes taking care of people when they're like this. He isn't worried about the ticking clock and how tired he is; he can sleep in tomorrow as long as he likes.

He holds the sheets up and Louis crawls into bed, then looks up at him bleary-eyed, his hair all messy.

“Liam,” he says in his raspy little voice.

Liam leans down over him. “‘Sup?”

Louis pulls him down onto the bed, then, and gets him in a headlock to give him a sloppy drunken noogie. Liam writhes out of his grip, laughing. He leans over him, hands on either side of his ribs, and they gaze at each other as they catch their breath.

“Can you stay here with me?” Louis says, with trepidation.

Liam nods. “‘Course.”

They disentangle, and Liam lies down next to him.

He's tremendously relieved that Louis even asked. Even as he's been getting over the loss of Sophia (more quickly than he thought he would; when he mentioned this to his sister Ruth, she'd said frankly, “Well, that relationship was dead months before it ended, right?”) sleeping alone hasn't gotten any easier. If anything his bed feels as if it grows bigger each night, like an oil spill no one’s paying attention to. He often lies there with his heart aching for no reason at all.

Liam looks over at his bedmate. Louis is facing away from him now, lying on his side. Liam squints in the darkness, focusing on the silhouetted dip of his waist.

He's so close. Inches away.

“You don't mind me in your bed in my street clothes?” Liam says, mostly as an excuse to keep talking to him.

Louis snorts. “Who am I, the Queen?”

“The Queen’s the only person alive who cares about her sheets?”

“Oi, remind me tomorrow,” Louis says sleepily. “Remind -- um. Shit. I've got a story idea for you. I started… I did prem -- preliminary work, even. It's in me ideas folder. I wrote it down.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a surprise. Remind me?”

“Okay,” Liam promises.

“You'll remember?”

“I've got a good memory.”

“Alright.”

Liam stares at the back of his head in the dark. _C’mere_ , he thinks quite desperately, then hates himself for it.

“Sheets,” Louis slurs, sounding amused. “Kid watches me throw up in an alley, thinks I care about me sheets.”

Liam snorts and reaches out to him, stroking his back. Louis leans into his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For last night. I didn't mean to bring all that shit up for you.”

“Hey,” Louis whispers, rolling over. Liam’s hand shrinks back. His watch feels heavy on his wrist. “I wanted to tell you. Else I wouldn't’ve.”

“I know, but…”

“I brought up shit for you too.”

Liam can't argue that. They both really sort of poured their hearts out last night. Maybe today is just the hangover from that, from going over a little cliff together.

Louis breathes out softly and clears his throat. “How's your tattoo feel?”

“Good. Little achey.”

“Good...”

Liam can tell from how he sounds that he's drifting off.

“Don't forget, Liam,” Louis says, his voice sweet with sleepiness. “Story idea…”

“I won't forget.”

“You promise?”

Liam reaches over and links pinkies with him. Louis snuggles closer. They're elbow to elbow now. Liam's pulse quickens, and he lets out a breath.

“I trust you,” Louis murmurs.

He falls asleep with their elbows touching, their biceps brushing. Lying next to him, Liam’s heart pounds terrifically in his chest. He thinks about what it would be like to roll over and press himself to Louis, the length of their bodies together, and it's so agonizing that he has to close his eyes.

Liam somehow eventually drifts off. He sleeps fitfully, like he's got a fever. Each time he wakes the waking world is unfamiliar. His bones feel hot inside of him.

Louis snores peacefully like a little cat. Liam looks over at him. He wants badly to touch him. Even the smallest, lightest touch: grazing his finger over Louis’ lip, stroking his hair.

He doesn't, of course. 


	11. Chapter 11

The story idea is a sit-down with Nigel Farage, who's in talks with ITV to do a half-hour interview, so he can dig into the finer points of Leave. And Louis has decided Liam is the one who ought to help him dig.

“The interview isn't the key thing,” Louis explains to him, as they stand huddled in the dark conference room. He’s crunching on a candy necklace leftover from Valentine’s Day that he found in his desk.

“No?”

“I don't care what Farage has to say,” he says matter-of-factly. “He'll say anything. Any of these Leaver leaders --”  
  
“Leaver leaders,” Liam sings.

Louis laughs and sings it back at him. “They’re just going to lie their arses off. What I want to do is have an excuse to get you into Downing Street.”

“And then?” Liam says, leaning on the doorway and glancing out at the newsroom.

“There's a Tory aide I talked to,” Louis says, and cracks a candy between his teeth. “Last time I was there, field-producing for Sharon. He was quite, um, leaky. He told me that old Boris was going to make a play for the Commons, back when he was still denying it. All on deep background, we couldn't use it out and out, but it helped us plan our coverage.”

“Ohh,” Liam says, twigging. “So you want to pump some aides and see how Remain is actually going?”

Louis grins. “‘Sactly.”

“Smart idea.”

“I have this suspicion they’ll be wanting to leak,” Louis says. “Just, I dunno, a hunch.”

Liam studies him. “Based on anything in particular?”

“I’ve got a few friends at papers who’ve said the whole street’s leakier than normal. But the rest of it’s just a hunch.”

Liam nods. “Good enough for me,” he says.

 

/

 

Louis Walsh wants to retire in June.

Liam finds this out in a one-on-one meeting with Simon on a warm Tuesday in mid-April. While he sits there in a dark leather armchair, his palms sweating, Simon coronates him as the new face of ITV London. Verbally pops a crown on his head. The king is dead, long live the king.

“Absolutely do _not_ tell anyone else it’s June, just yet,” Simon instructs. “Not until I've got all my ducks in a row. You'll know it’s all in order when I call a big meeting about it.”

“Alright,” Liam agrees.

But Louis knows he met with Simon, and being too clever by half, he immediately hits on the fact that it was about the timeline for the switchover and starts prying about the exact date.

Liam resists this, since he promised not to tell, but Louis tries to drag it out of him anyway. During their Sunday football match he knocks him to the ground and collars him around the neck, whispering in his ear, “Payno. When does Walsh leave?”

“No, no,” Liam protests. One of Louis’ thighs is pressed to his waist, taut with muscle but pleasantly thick at the same time. Annoyed by his refusal to squeal, Louis gives him a wet willy, and Liam has to tickle him to escape.

On Monday, the regular morning meeting is preempted by what Paul refers to as “a big old Simon to-do” that's going to take place at eleven.

Louis elbows Liam in the ribs as soon as Paul heads back up to his big glass office.

“Oh, yeah, this is the meeting,” Liam says, pushing his hand away. “I wasn't keeping _that_ bit a secret, you hadn't got to hit me.”

“Sorry, mate.”

“You should be! My tattoo’s still healing, you know.”

“Oh, shit, I forgot.”

“Kiss it better,” Niall suggests.

Louis bends over and gives Liam an exaggerated flurry of kisses on the ribs. Liam stands there, laughing, his face growing hot and his gut going all funny, doing backflips every time Louis’ lips land on him through his shirt.

Harry walks up to them with a cup of tea, raising an eyebrow. “Have I missed something?”

“Liam’s about t’ get promoted in front of everyone,” Niall says.

“Louis!” Liam says, annoyed. Louis straightens up and gives him an innocent look. “I thought you said you hadn't told anyone.”

“Fair, but I didn't think that included _Niall_.”

“I knew anyway, lads,” Niall says, chuckling.

“I don't rate, I guess,” Harry says mildly, drinking his tea.

“Sorry, Haz. It's not like this is a _surprise_ ,” Louis says. “And Simon’s ridiculous for dragging half the newsroom to this circus act meeting. He thinks everything is a reality show.”

“He really ought to be president of the entertainment end, not news,” Niall says.

“He would be, if he had his way. I reckon that's where he's headed.”

“Good riddance,” says Harry.

Nick steamrolls through the newsroom, nicking things off people’s desks only to deposit them on other desks, and turning monitors off at random. Ellie slaps his arm as he goes by.

“Big meeting!” he shouts to no one in particular.

“Yeah, we know,” Louis shouts back, dogging him as he heads toward the conference room. Liam treads so closely on Liam’s heels that when Nick stops and Louis stops right after, Liam crashes into him, grabbing him by the shoulders so he doesn't knock him into Nick.

Louis half-turns. “Alright there?” he says to Liam, grinning. “Nervous?”

“Noo, I love a good circus.”

Louis laughs.

Nick eyes Liam. “Any chance we're going to get in there and he's going to announce he's chucked the Doogie Howser bit and picked someone else to take over?”

Liam’s gut clenches at the idea. “Doubt it,” he says lightly.

“Nick, is that a sexual release you get from being a constant fuckin’ buzzkill, or is it more of a psychological one?” Louis tosses back at him.

Harry snorts as he walks by and tugs the door to the conference room open; Nick seems annoyed by his amusement.

“Nice workplace talk, d’you kiss blokes with that mouth?” he says to Louis.

“No, this is the mouth I eat your dad’s arse with.”

“Lovely.”

“I was going to say something you properly wouldn't like, but I thought I’d go for the more professional option.”

“Right, that’s much more professional.”

“Nick, you started up,” Liam points out.

“And I seem to recall I was giving _you_ a hard time, actually.”

“Yeah, was there a reason for that or something?” Liam adopts a wounded expression. “I brought the marketing office biscuits last week, or have you already forgotten?”

“No,” Nick says with a grin. “I just like provoking this one here, and he’s always sticking up for you.”

“Aye, don’t come at my boy,” Louis says.

Liam lightly presses two knuckles to Louis’ back. “Can we go sit down?”

“Yes, please,” a voice from behind them says, and they turn to see a bored-looking Simon flanked by Paul. Paul is obviously trying not to laugh. Liam wonders how much of that they heard.

Inside the conference room, it's a chaotic scene of two dozen people either helping to drag in extra chairs or loitering around the fringes, tapping away at their phones. The din of the chatter steadily rises until Simon claps his hands and takes a seat at the head of the table.

Louis pulls in two chairs and collapses into one. Liam takes the other.

“Alright,” Simon says. Walsh is standing over his right shoulder; Paul stands over his left one, arms folded. “So, I don't imagine any of what I'm about to say is a shock.”

There are nods all around, but especially from marketing and sales, who have been shooting Liam-heavy adverts all month. Just last Thursday they had him out in front of Big Ben, smiling like a goober in his nicest suit.

Harry is leaning on one of the glass walls with his arms folded, brow knitted, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth. He catches Liam looking at him and flashes him a dimpled smile. Liam gives it back to him.

He feels guilty about all this, still, but it's too late to fix it. The die is cast. All he can do now is the best job he possibly can.

“Louis Walsh has decided to retire,” Simon says, glancing amongst the gathered crowd, who grow more somber immediately. “He's given two decades to us, and served us admirably through some difficult years. Some of you are too young to remember, but he did some key reporting during the war in Iraq.”

Simon takes his glasses off and folds them up, pressing the end of one leg to his mouth like he's thinking.

“He's an icon in the industry, and he'll be greatly missed,” he says. “Louis,” he adds, and Walsh steps forward to shake his hand.

“Simon, thank you,” Walsh says. “I'll miss you all a great deal. It was a tough decision, but not one I make lightly.”

Louis starts off a round of applause that becomes very loud in the small, crowded room. Walsh gets a little bright in the eyes at this.

“And you’ll be able to pass along your regards personally at a goodbye party we’ll be having,” Paul says. “Location and date TK.”

“So when he steps down,” Simon says, “some of you may have already guessed that Paul and I have had someone in mind to take his place both at the six o’clock desk, and as a public face of ITV News.” He gestures to Liam. “Our new hire, Liam Payne.”

There's more applause; it seems genuine, but strained. Liam gets it. People like him, but they don't like this decision. He can't say he blames them.

Louis claps rather ferociously for him, while Walsh’s own clapping is subdued. Liam wonders how he actually feels about this.

“In early June, we’ll change over entirely,” Simon says. “New promos, new Tube ads, everything, and Liam will start doing the six every night of the week.”

The room explodes in noise. Suddenly, everyone is on their phones, typing frantically while they chatter away like myna birds.

“June?” Louis exclaims, tenting his fingers on the table. Simon looks at him impassively. “ _June_? I thought we'd have months and months to prepare? Liam!”

He looks to Liam for a response; Liam just shakes his head and doesn't make eye contact.

Louis thwaps him on the leg repeatedly to get his attention. Without saying anything, Liam reaches down under the table and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together and stilling him.

Louis laughs at this, but his hand lingers in Liam’s longer than it needs to.

In all of the commotion, Walsh makes a quiet exit.

“Alright!” Simon shouts over them all. “Alright, settle down. This wasn't decided on out of nowhere. This was considered very carefully by management, planned at great length. This _will_ go smoothly, and you'll all help to ensure it does.”

“But --” Nick glances amongst his marketing team, who all look back at him blank-faced. “It isn't enough time to prepare.”

“This isn't rocket science,” Simon says.

“No one’s used to him.”

“That's why he's been doing Mondays, and why he'll continue to up until the final switch.”

“We’ll alienate our older viewers.”

“Do you think this wasn't focus-grouped?”

“Well,” Nick splutters, “no one told _us_ it was focus-grouped.”

“Sorry,” Simon says airily. “It's because it was part of a larger ITV Entertainment initiative. We’ve decided to go more millennial-oriented across the board. More millennial television programming, a more millennial newscast. I've sent your team all the data, Nick, make whatever use of it you like. We just wanted to announce this first.”

Liam looks at Louis, who has his hand pressed to his forehead. Louis glances sidelong at him and mouths, _Everything makes sense now_.

Liam nods.

“Wait,” Jesy says, gesturing with her phone in her hand. “So that's why it's Liam, then?”

Liam looks down at his hands and fiddles with his watchband.

“Liam,” Simon says, pulling a chart from a manila folder he has with him, “tests very, _very_ well with kids eighteen to twenty-five, which is a group we’re badly failing at attracting, especially compared to Four. He also works well with our six o’clock team, and with Sharon. There are a multitude of reasons, and our decision is final.”

“It isn't that we don't want it to be Liam,” Perrie says from the back, “it's that you've sort of sprung this on us as a newsroom.”

“Yeah, it's sudden,” Olly mutters.

“As they say, life comes at you fast,” Simon says dryly, slipping the paper back into his envelope.

Liam feels a bit numb. He must look it, because Louis reaches over and squeezes his thigh.

“We’ll be hiring to replace him for the weekend desk,” Paul says as Simon gets to his feet. “So any on-camera talent who are interested in that post are welcome to put their CVs forward.”

Harry looks up. So does Leigh Anne.

“And we’ll send out a series of emails about this,” Paul adds. “Since not everyone is here today.”

Simon nods and waves to them all on his way out. Those left behind turn to each other, stunned.

“Emergency marketing meeting,” Nick says to his team, and they all bounce, leaving their empty chairs spinning.

“Um, well, congratulations, Liam,” Andy says, and everyone choruses their own congratulations.

“Thank you, thanks, everyone,” Liam says, sheepish. “I, um… I get this isn't like, ideal. I actually had no idea about the millennials thing.”

“It’s not your fault, Liam. Simon's a fucking megalomaniac,” Jesy says.

Perrie laughs in surprise and goes over to make sure the door is firmly shut. “Jesminda!”

“No, I'm serious! He just does these things on a whim because he knows we’ll scramble to pick up the slack. He totally takes advantage of how much we love the business.”

“I’ll second that, absolutely,” Louis says. “But it's not like playing ball with ‘im has ever hurt any of our careers.”

“Right,” Niall says, rubbing at his stubble. “Important thing to remember, that.”

Ellie, who's standing next to him, clears her throat. “You've got the most reason to be annoyed, Louis,” she says. “I mean, it's your show.”

“I'm not,” Louis says. “Like, I’m annoyed Simon is rushing this, ‘cos that’s a negative across the board. But I’m looking forward to a younger energy in the newscast, in the studio in general.” He pauses. “It's a good thing, innit? Who here isn't technically a millennial?”

Only two people raise their hands.

“So, you know,” Louis says, shrugging. “There's a lot of potential here. I've already talked with Liam about him bringing a stronger focus on Brexit. Young people are politically engaged, they care about this shit. And, you know, there are other youth-oriented special reports we can do. We hear all the time about the generation coming up right now bein’ like, Britain’s lost generation.”

“Have you talked to Nick about this?” Harry says.

“Um,” Louis says. “I will. I will.”

“I'm totally ready to work with everyone to make sure this show is everything it needs to be,” Liam assures them. “I mean, you all know me by now. I'm energized, I'm open to ideas. I'm not coming in with a huge ego or anything.”

Jesy and a few others nod at this.

“So I reckon we can break, now,” Louis says. “I need a smoke. Regular morning meeting in an hour, yeah?”

“Are we having a producers meeting about this?” Jade says.

“Nah, ‘less you lot really want to.”

“Less meetings is always good,” Andy says.

 

/

 

“I can't fuckin’ believe,” Louis says as soon as he and Liam get away from everyone and go outside. He's smoking like a madman. “ _June_?”

“Louis, I can handle it, it's alright.”

Louis squints out across the car park and shakes his head.  
The ITV building towers over them. In one of those rooms high up above in Entertainment, a random sampling of Brits looked at Liam’s reel and gave their unvarnished opinions on him without his knowledge. It makes him feel funny to think about.

Louis has a folder tucked under his arm that Liam’s been eyeing since the meeting. After a moment of hesitation, he snatches it and opens it.

“Payno, don't, don’t,” Louis exclaims, trying to grab it back from him. Liam holds it over his head like a playground bully. “That's a master copy, that's got all the comments --”

“Good!” Liam says, his heart thumping. “I want to know.”

“No, no. There's a reason the talent doesn't sit in on those --”

Liam walks a few steps away, flipping open the folder, scanning desperately.

Louis tosses his cigarette to the ground. “Liam!”

“‘Too cute’,” Liam reads slowly. Simon’s handwriting is sloppy like a doctor’s. “‘Comes off airheaded.’ ‘Seems trustworthy.’ ‘Too young.’ ‘Lacked confidence.’ ‘Good voice.’ ‘Farmboy face.’ ‘Seemed unsure of himself.’ ‘Good banter.’ ‘Too y --’”

Louis slaps the folder out of his hands. The papers scatter on the ground. “Stop!”

“I want to know!”

“You don't!” Louis cries. “Look, Simon ran a focus group on me, once, when I mentioned I might want to be a reporter. He used my uni reel, and then I stole the notes from his office. D’you want to know the shit they said about me? One bloke literally just wrote _‘Gay_ , question mark?’ That was it! That was all the notes he took! Gay, question mark!”

Liam drags in a deep breath and motions for Louis to give him a cigarette.

Louis almost does, then stops and takes Liam’s face in his hands.

“You can do this,” he says, looking up at him, sober as a judge.

“You didn't even want me on the _weekend_ , when I started,” Liam says, and it's like he sliced a rubbish bag open -- insecurity tumbles out. “You thought I wasn't good enough or educated enough, and --”

“I was wrong,” Louis says passionately, still holding him, moving closer so they're almost hip to hip. “I was wrong, mate, all that shit you can learn. You've got a quality, people trust you, people can see you're good at heart. People trust you. You can't learn that. They couldn't teach you that in a hundred years.”

Liam’s eyes flick over Louis’. “What about Harry?”

“Harry’s got it too, but this isn't about him.”

“I've nicked his job off him!”

“Simon was never going to give him this post.”

“Why not?”

“Because Harry tests terribly with millennial blokes, is why.”

“So it all comes down to numbers. Polls. And you tell me every time we talk about Brexit, that shit don't mean a thing, ‘cos of -- what's it called? Social desirability? That people lie about how they feel to make themselves look better?”

“I _know_ you're good!”

“How? How could you possibly know that?”

“Because!” Louis shouts in his face. “Because I'm fuckin’ smart, I’m good at what I do, I've got great taste, and I know it in my gut! And that's what matters! When I talk about social desirability, I'm talkin’ about -- people answer polls with their brains, but they vote with their hearts, their guts. I feel you in my _gut_ , mate. When I watch you up there, I feel it -- you make me feel things, alright?”

Breathing hard, Louis steps back from him. Liam watches him with curiosity.

“You're sincere,” Louis says, his voice softer. “You're… warm. You're warm. You make me feel safe, like. And I’m not the only one.”

They stare at each other, chests rising and falling. Liam's lips are tingling.

“Thanks,” he says, looking down. Louis’ gaze is too much for him.

“I mean all of it.”

“I know you do.”

“D’you trust me?” Louis says.

Liam nods hard.

“Then know I'm not going to steer you wrong. I'm not about to let you down.”

“I believe you, Tommo.”

Louis hands him a cigarette.

 

/

 

Louis had expected a much more forgiving timetable. Now he's got less than two months to help Liam learn to constantly flex his best qualities so that when he’s behind the desk for good, he might be able to drag viewers away from the beloved, respected, cancer-surviving George Alagiah of BBC’s News at Six.

He's not under any illusion about how tremendously difficult this will be. And he feels sort of terrible for Liam, who’s going about it by putting his head down and slogging away. In addition to dozens of little one-on-one meetings with Louis, Nick, Walsh and Paul, he's meeting with the voice coach four times a week, now. He doesn't really come out for drinks after work anymore; when he does, he goes all out like a maniac, blowing off all his stored-up steam at once.

“All these meetings are murdering me,” Liam admits to him at one point, as they sit in the conference room going over planned coverage for the next few months. “So boring.”

Louis glances up. “Oh, cheers.”

“Not ours!” Liam seems mortified that Louis thought he was included in this. “I don’t even think of these as meetings, really. It just feels like we’re hanging out.”

It’s true that’s what they feel like. They’re growing into a solid pair. They come at every problem from completely different angles, and yet they always twig to each other’s point of view. Louis feels like they've both got half of the puzzle. When they put it together, they're unstoppable: it's like a chain reaction going off, a row of a hundred little light bulbs coming on one after the other. They argue plenty, but it isn't ever malicious. It's more of a problem-solving mechanism; working out the kinks in your idea by having to defend it to someone else.

Liam moves out of his flat at the end of April (breaking his lease -- “That's one nice thing, I’m making _lease-breaking_ money, now,” he says with boyish excitement) not wanting to keep living somewhere he picked out with Sophia.

Louis, Andy, Niall, the football crew and some of Liam’s friends all help him move into his new place, a big airy loft with access to a roof garden.

Louis gets along brilliantly with Liam’s mates, which seems to tickle Liam. Owen finds a football in the moving lorry, and they end up abandoning their work to kick it around in the street outside. It bounces off a car and sets the alarm off.

Louis quickly strolls back toward the flat, as he's the one who kicked it. He runs into Liam on the stairs.

“What’s up?” Liam says with a grin. “Causing trouble?”

“No! I'm working very hard out there, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“John broke one of your lamps, though. And he'll try to tell you it was me if you go out there.”

“And of course it wasn't.”

“Payno,” Louis says in a grave voice, “I don't break things.”

“Who broke that boom pole last week while they were playing swordfight with Oli?”

“I'm bein’ framed, constantly,” Louis exclaims, shoving past him and jogging up the stairs. Liam laughs.

The second day of May is nasty, chilly and damp. Nick finds Louis smoking outside, huddled under an awning, and drags him in for a marketing meeting. Liam gives him a sympathetic look when he walks in the door, like he’d hoped to spare him from this. Louis sits next to him and stage whispers, “How long has he had you in here?”

Fiona snorts.

“Only ten minutes,” Liam says.

Nick shuts his office door loudly behind them. “Hush, you. Alright, everyone take a whiteboard,” he says, and promptly hands some out to the three of them, along with markers. “And jot down some ideas for Liam adverts. Let them flow freely. We’re brainstorming, here, no judgment.”

He and Fiona work studiously for a few minutes, writing out line after line. Liam becomes engrossed in whatever he’s putting down, his dark brows furrowed with studious intent. Louis glances between all of them, then stares at his whiteboard for a few minutes. His brain stays blank. And he’s annoyed at Nick for interrupting his smoke.

“Louis, what’ve you got there?” Fiona says when they’ve all looked up.

Louis reluctantly shows her the whiteboard, which has a poorly drawn dick on it.

Liam turns away, buries his face in his elbow and shakes with silent laughter.

“Louis!” Nick complains.

“Mate, you can’t just drag me in here and expect brilliance at eleven in the morning!”

“I expect a little _gravity!”_

“You lot really need to let Liam be,” Louis says, giving Nick a hard stare. Nick glares right back. “D’you think he doesn’t have enough on his mind right now without you asking him to do your job for you?”

Fiona’s eyebrows try to leave her face. Nick goggles.

“Whether you like it or not, Louis,” he exclaims, “we have actually got to advertise this fucking newscast if we’d like anyone to watch it! And I’d like Liam’s input on what people like about him!”

“It isn’t the talent’s job to make those calls!”

“Can I speak for myself?” Liam says, somewhat testily, and Louis comes back into his own body all at once.

“Yeah, mate, sorry.”

“What did you write, Liam?” Fiona says.

“Uhh… not important. Just, like, I dunno.” He hesitates. “We want to be the fresh, millennial alternative -- that’s the only thing we can tap, really, since Aunt Beeb has the market cornered on being an institution. And Channel Four’s getting really good at the same bit, with the millennial angle, I know from working there. Soo…” He shrugs. “Best of both worlds -- me as like, the millennial you can trust? The bloke not much older than you, but who you’d call if you were stuck on the side of the road.”

“Your dad friend,” Louis says. “But not your dad.”

Liam smiles and taps his temple with the marker. “Right. I know what’s up, I won’t steer you wrong, but I’m not lecturing you, necessarily.”

“Yeah,” Nick says, with a shark-like smile. “Make them feel like Alagiah _is_ lecturing them. Exactly.”

Louis winces at this. He really likes Alagiah.

“Oh, relax, Louis, we never go after them directly.”

“The fresh alternative,” Fiona says, and spreads her hands. “Inexperience you can trust,” she adds humorously.

Liam laughs, good-natured as he is.

They leave Nick and Fiona to debate the finer points of a “dad friend” marketing blitz; as they make their way back to the newsroom, Louis stops to tie one of his Converse.

“Sorry,” he mutters, once he's bent down. “I didn't mean to talk over you in there.”

“You haven't got to protect me,” Liam reminds him, and then adds more playfully: “I'm a big boy.”

“I know, lad, I do, It's just --” Louis hops to his feet. “They're vultures around here sometimes, and --”

He realizes a few seconds too late that he's just trailed off like a moron. Louis is muddling around in dark waters, wondering how he can save Liam’s pride without having to say anything too vulnerable.

It turns out not to matter; Liam waves him down, his eyes twinkling.

“I get it,” he says.

Louis grins. “Traveling?”

Liam pretends to think very seriously about this. “Double dribble.”

 

/

 

“Oh hey, Tommo,” Oli calls, slipping off his work gloves so he can fine-tune the positioning of a light.

Louis trudges toward him through the garden of David Beckham’s West London property, which is squishy with last night’s rain. “Oi oi. What’s up?”

“Not much, what’re you doing here? It's your day off.”

“Liam told me to swing by and meet Beckham.”

He's a bit nervous; he's met plenty of celebrities before, but none he’s this starstruck over.

Niall emerges from a back door, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Tommo,” he says happily. “Here to meet the man?”

“Ah, you caught me.”

“Don't know what else you'd be here for, since you don't work today and you've fancied Beckham since uni.”

“Shut it,” Louis warns. “I didn't know you were running camera on this?”

“Aye, Pez is away to a big fire, so t’ desk called me in to be Bressie’s second.”

“Pretty sick, right? David Beckham?”

“I’d met him before, remember? You had a flu that day or somethin’?”

Louis scowls. “I forgot about that, you bastard.”

Niall grins and starts dismantling a tripod.

“Are they in there?” Louis says, nodding at the door he came out of.

“Yeah, they are -- just ramblin’ on about architecture.”

Louis thanks him and goes to the door, pausing a moment before he opens it to steel himself.

Inside, David and Liam are touring a large rec room on the ground floor of the townhouse. David’s kids must use this; it’s full of the sorts of things teenage boys love. Bressie is following them around, camera on his shoulder, while Calvin stands off to the side tweaking the lighting as they walk.

He spots Louis and does Westside at him; Louis mouths, “Are they about wrapped?” and Calvin nods.

Liam seems to spot Louis as he's wrapping up; he trips over a word or two, but smiles through it.

When they cut and the crew starts carrying things out to the backyard, Louis approaches. Liam slings an arm around him and spins him so he’s facing all gorgeous six feet of David Beckham. Louis attempts a normal expression.

“This is our executive producer, Louis Tomlinson,” Liam says, sounding all proud.

“Louis!” David exclaims, sticking his hand out. Louis shakes it in a daze. “Lovely to meet you.”

“Fantastic to meet you,” Louis says. “Really massive fan.”

“Yeah, Liam was telling me you’re big on football.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Louis has actually taught me some new things about football,” Liam says, “which maybe isn't good, ‘cos I was a sports reporter for years before this, but…”

They all chuckle.

“So you write the news and sort of organize it?” David says.

“Right, I like -- prioritize what goes in the show, where in the show it goes. And write the anchor scripts,” Louis says. “And oversee the other producers, as well.”

David nods at him, which is a good sign. He must have managed to produce a coherent sentence.

“That all sounds rather difficult,” he says. “And you’re so young!”

“Twenty-eight,” Louis demurs.

“Good God, not even thirty! And Liam here is, what, a sixth-former?”

Liam laughs. “I’m twenty-six!”

“Twenty-six,” David repeats with a shake of the head. He’s so handsome when he’s incredulous.

“You did start on with Man U as a teenager,” Louis points out.

David grins. “Good point,” he says with a wink. “But you don’t need to study anything to play football, so forgive me for being impressed with you boys.”

“I mean, I can fairly guarantee I’m never going to tell David Beckham to _not_ be impressed with me.”

David finds this very funny.

“So,” he says, putting a hand on Louis’ shoulder and looking at him intently. Louis does a commendable job staying upright in spite of this. “Louis. How closely do you follow this whole Brexit deal?”

“Very,” Louis says immediately. “Very close, aye.”

“Okay. Good. It won't happen, right?”

“Um,” Louis says. “I have some bad news, actually. I reckon there's a chance it could.”

“Shit,” David says, chuckling. “See -- and this is off the record, boys --”

They both nod.

“My wife, you know, wants it to. She hates the EU. But I really think Leave could be bad for football.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Louis says immediately. “I mean, the pound falling, for starters.”

“We could see a broader pool of talent outside Europe, if we did leave, but…” David sucks in a breath. “Oh well. We’ll see, right?”

“We’ll see,” Louis says. “And I’m sort of a pessimist. Take it with a grain of salt.”

David smiles. “I’ll keep it in mind! And if it happens, I’ll say to myself… oh, Louis from ITV, he warned me it might.”

“And when it doesn’t, remember I hedged my bets.”

David laughs. His hand is still on Louis’ shoulder. Louis thinks he’s going to take this shirt off when he gets home and have it framed.

“Do we want to go out to the garden, now?” Liam says.

“Oh, right, right. Let me just go fetch my assistant so she can tell your boys how to best light me outdoors... Excuse me one moment.”

As soon as the back door is firmly shut behind him, Louis lets out a breath he'd been holding.

“Fuck,” he says. “He’s something, isn't he?”

Liam’s eyes twinkle. “I think he liked you.”

Louis is deeply flattered, but snorts dismissively. “Please,” he says.

“You know,” Liam says, “I've been told on Twitter I look a bit like him.”

Louis’ stomach flips. He gets Liam into a gentle headlock; Liam laughs and protests, grabbing him around the waist and trying to drag them both down to the floor so he can twist out of his grip.

“I don't see it at all,” Louis murmurs in Liam’s ear.

“No?” Liam says, and wrestles him onto the floor, pinning him with a knee between his legs. “Look closer…”

Louis lies there, his hands laced behind Liam’s back. They stare at each other, breathing heavily. Louis’ heart is pounding. His brain is pudding.

“I still don't see it,” he lies with a smile.

“Cheeky,” Liam says, and flicks him gently in the ear, then gets to his feet. “Look at this wainscoting! Isn’t it incredible? This entire house is beautiful.”

“Alright, _Dad_.”

“Hey!”

 

/

 

They all go out that night. When Liam’s four beers deep, Louis collars him.

“Payno,” he says. “You good?”

“I'm great,” Liam slurs cheerily, meeting Louis’ eyes in the dark of the pub. From the crowd behind them, there's the tinkle of breaking glass, some jeers and a whoop.

“Just checking. You're goin’ fairly hard tonight.”

“I'm the life of the party,” Liam sings, slinging an arm around Louis’ shoulder. Louis, all instinct, takes Liam’s hand in his without even thinking about it, holding it in his, rubbing his fingers along one callused but soft palm.

Liam squeezes his hand. “Got something for you…”

He reaches in his back pocket and produces a tulip with a short stem, like he clipped it so he could carry it around.

Louis takes it, twirling it in his fingers. His heart trips over itself in his chest.

Liam strokes his thumb over Louis’.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut for just one brief second. It doesn't mean anything, he thinks furiously to himself. It doesn't mean what it feels like it means, it's playful, innocent. Liam is all innocence, all play -- like a big puppy, looking up at Louis with warm dark eyes.

“No rose this time?” Louis says.

“I figure you got bored looking at the rose,” he murmurs. “And this smells nicer.”

“Nicked it?”

“‘Course.”

Louis grins. “Good.”


	12. Chapter 12

Liam doesn't show at football the next day. After the first quarter, a worried Louis jogs over to the sideline to ring him.

“Shitbollocks,” Liam says as soon as he picks up. “I could have sworn I texted you, sorry. I'm hanging, it’s ridiculous, been puking all morning.”

“No worries, we just wondered where you'd gotten to.”

Louis hears a familiar voice in the background. He squints, ears pricked.

“No, it's Louis,” Liam whispers.

The voice says something else.

“Is that Zayn?” Louis interrupts.

“Um, yeah. He had off today, so he came by...” Liam pauses. “D’you -- maybe the three of us could --”

Louis starts shaking his head as soon as he hears ‘three’. “Oh, no, no.”

“You sure? I was going to say we could get drinks tonight.”

“Not a good idea, mate.”

“Yeah?”

“Just, y’know, give it some more time.”

“Alright,” Liam says agreeably. Louis, now sort of regretting that he called, puts his foot up on the bleachers to tie his loosened cleat laces.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Louis murmurs. “Early, so we can talk Farage questions?”

“Definitely.” Liam sounds sort of relieved for the subject change. “Eleven?”

“Eleven’s perfect.”

They say goodbye and Louis jogs back to the boys.

“Where’s Payno?” Robbie demands. “Where’s my midfield boy?”

Sean pouts. “This mean _I_ have to play mid? I hate mid…”

Louis picks up a football and starts juggling it with his knees. “He drank too much last night.”

“Shamefully unprofessional,” says Robbie. “You slip him a mickey just so you’d win today?”

“We don’t need to take Liam out to win!” Louis exclaims, kicking the ball over to him. He doesn’t expect it and fumbles it. Owen, who’s putting his keeper gloves back on, glances up and laughs.

 

/

 

“Ten more,” Louis says.

Liam, who’s lying on the conference room floor in his suit with a piece of paper over his face, groans.

“I’m serious. Let’s just get a hundred potential questions down, and then we can prune to eighty.”

“Louis,” Liam whines, his voice muffled by the paper. “I literally want to kill you.”

Louis grins, swings his legs. He’s sitting on the conference room table. “Yeah? How bad?”

“So bad.”

Louis jumps down and goes over to Liam, kneeling next to him. He pulls the paper off his face, and Liam looks blearily up at him. His dark eyes are bloodshot.

Louis runs his finger along Liam’s cheek. “You need to have Lou touch up your edges. Messy messy. Television’s a visual medium, lad.”

Liam laughs. It sounds a little hoarse in his chest. Louis tries not to worry about that.

“I thought on-camera talent didn't get to be lads,” Liam says, with a lingering smile. “Thought I was excluded.”

Louis chuckles. “Right. I’m just tired, dunno what I'm saying. Don't get any ideas. Alright, you want to get some tea and come back to this?”

Liam nods, and Louis helps him up.

The door to the break room is shut, which is odd. Louis knocks, and when there’s no answer, peeks in.

Niall and Ellie are cloistered inside, standing very close and talking in hushed whispers. Niall glances up and rushes over, red-faced, to block them from coming in.

“We’re printing in here,” he hisses. “We’re printin’ things. Bye!”

He shuts the door.

Louis puts his hands to the door, surprised and amused. “Lad,” he calls. “There’s not even a printer in there. Niall? We just want tea!”

“ _Bye,_ Louis!” Ellie shouts.

Thwarted, Louis turns to Liam, who’s biting his lip and seems lost in thought.

“No tea?” he says, after a pause.

“Plan B, I’ve got a box in me desk,” Louis says, and beckons him along into the newsroom bullpen.

Harry’s working at the computer next to his, and glances up as they come over, taking his headphones off. “How’s the brainstorming?” he says. “Liam, you look dead.”

Louis kneels to rummage in his drawers, which are sort of a mess. He’s just noticed Harry has a little lovebite on his neck, where his hair would usually cover if it weren’t pushed back by sunglasses like it is right now. He wonders if Nick gave that to him.

“I _am_ dead,” Liam says. “I’m actually dead right now. Please send my mum some flowers.”

“What, you haven’t stolen her any?” Louis mutters, and he sets a tin of tea on his desk, along with a handful of sugar packets and single serving half and halfs.

Liam laughs. “No, just for you,” he says, and swats him with the papers he’s holding. “Don’t want to press my luck and get done in for flower-stealing.”

Harry’s eyes narrow very slightly at ‘for you’, like he’s wondering what the hell that’s about, but mercifully he doesn’t ask. Louis doesn’t really want to explain their weird flower thing to him.

“Yeah, you’d get your arse kicked on the inside,” Louis says, straightening up and laughing.

“Maybe Liam’s a master thief, and this is his way of covering,” Harry says, pointing to him ominously with a pen he’s holding. “Maybe he’s like Keyser Soze, just playing us off. But the Met is onto him, and they’ll pinch him for the flowers, like how they got Capone for his taxes.”

“Is he Keyser Soze, or is he Capone?” Louis teases.

“You’re giving me a lot of credit, Harry,” Liam says. “I put a sock on backwards this morning.”

“That’s what you’d have us believe,” Harry says with a smile.

Louis hands Liam a mug with two teabags in it. “How d’you put a sock on backwards, anyway?”

Liam tries to pantomime the events leading up to this, to no avail. “You just -- and the thing’s on top -- you don’t ever do that?”

“You’ve lost me, lad.”

“I’ve only ever put shirts on backwards,” Harry says.

“Accidentally, or for the culture?” Louis says, grinning at him.

“Both,” Harry says. “Usually accidentally. ‘Cos you know, I like my nips to breathe.”

“Well, when you’ve got four of them.”

Ed, sitting across from them, lets out a snort.

 

/

 

Early into May, Louis gets their ratings for the last week of April in his inbox right after they wrap the Monday show. As soon as he reads them and processes what they mean, he gambols whooping from the control room into the studio, where Sharon has quickly scarpered and left Liam at the big desk, reading something on his phone.

“Payno!” Louis shouts in joy, slapping his hands down against the desk. Liam looks up at him, his eyes round with surprise.

“We beat the Beeb last Monday! By an entire half point! We haven’t done that in eight _months_!”

Calvin, who’s in the corner wrapping a cord up, does a slow clap. “Fuck the Beeb!” he says cheerfully on his way out.

“What!” Liam exclaims, coming around from behind the desk. “Are you serious?”

Louis shoves his phone in Liam’s face. Liam grabs him by the elbows and holds him steady as he reads the email, his eyebrows furrowed. When he’s seen the number he laughs joyfully and wraps his arms around Louis, squeezing him.

They stagger into the middle of the room and, as usual, end up on the floor, rolling over cords and giggling together.

Liam’s hand slides up his waist, catching his t-shirt and pulling it so the skin is exposed. He gazes at Louis; Louis looks back at him, then reaches up and pushes his hair off his forehead. He’s tingling all over and not quite breathing right. It doesn't sound like Liam is breathing right, either.

There are footsteps behind them.

“Lads,” says Niall’s voice. He sounds amused.

They look up. He’s standing protectively in front of one of the floor cameras as if to prevent them from knocking into it.

Harry is behind him. He did his live shot from inside the studio tonight, to intro his package about UK youth culture. He sounded great and looked even better -- Louis had texted him to put tonight in his reel, so Simon sees it when he applies for the weekend post.

Harry tugs his IFB out of his ear and raises his eyebrows at them.

“We beat the Beeb last week,” Louis explains. “On Liam’s night, specifically.”

Liam removes his hands from Louis’ waist, somewhat guiltily.

“You’re jokin’!” Niall exclaims.

“We _never_ beat them,” Harry says, impressed. “Not on a weeknight, anyway. Where's Sharon?”

“She dashed off after the show,” Liam says. “Hubby drama.”

Louis likes that he says hubby, like he's a mum of four on Facebook.

“That why you two are rollin’ around on the floor?” Niall says.

“When _aren't_ they rolling around on the floor?” says Harry.

Louis laughs and untangles himself from Liam, feeling self-conscious. Liam dusts off his suit.

The sound of heels clacking makes them all turn; Ellie’s just walked in.

“Oh, hi,” she says. “Forgot my mobile in the weather center. What’s all this commotion?”

“We beat the Beeb!” Liam cries excitedly. “Last Monday!”

Her mouth makes an O. “Nooo, you’re kidding!”

“Dead serious,” Louis says, getting to his feet. He stretches a hand down to help Liam up and then snatches it back as soon as Liam goes to take it; Liam rolls his eyes and gives him the finger. Louis laughs and actually helps him up.

“That’s fantastic,” Ellie says, fetching her phone. “See, there’s something to this millennial thing after all.”

Liam and Louis look at each other, smiling with pride.

“Weeknights at six team hug,” Louis announces, and brings them all in for a group squeeze. They laugh and tousle each other's hair. “Ellie! C’mere! Team hug!”

She protests, but clacks over to them and joins in.

“Can we all take a selfie?” Liam says. “I want a selfie to celebrate.”

“Is it a selfie if it’s of five people?” Niall asks, his voice muffled against Harry’s bicep.

“Well, I dunno, I'm not the selfie police.”

“Lou,” Harry says when they separate, and Louis’ attention snaps to him. “I will put tonight in my reel, I think.”

“Good, you should! You were fantastic.”

“And how did we like my footage of that bloke skateboarding?” Niall says with a grin. “All off the shoulder! No tripod.”

“Sick,” Louis says appreciatively.

“Seriously?” Harry says, turning to him. “That was so smooth!”

“I know! Fuckin’ legendary.”

“That’s our boy,” Ellie says, winking at him as she heads back out to the newsroom.

Niall lets out a breathy laugh, and winks back.

“It’s good to have you back as a photog, mate,” Louis says. “You two are the dream team.”

Harry blows Niall a kiss; Niall mimes catching it and putting it in his shirt pocket.  
“I’m shootin’ your Farage thing, by the way,” he says to Liam. “Just got the confirmation.”

“Oh, cool!” Liam says. “Shit, I keep forgetting how soon that is.”

“Nervous?” Harry asks.

“Erm… I mean, a bit.”

“Just give him some banter about how evil the Euro is,” Harry says. “Tell him you’d rather have the Queen on your money than a bunch of ugly buildings.”

Louis laughs. “Very journalistically sound.”

“It is! It's aesthetic, not political...”

“The ones we’ve got now have some woman on them, don’t they?” says Niall.

“Europa,” Liam says. “My brain is full of Euro facts right now. And Farage facts.”

“Where’s he from?” Harry says.

“Home counties.”

“Euch,” Louis says. “Not one single redeeming thing about this bloke, is there?”

“I do actually like that he didn’t go to uni,” Liam says. “‘Cos I almost didn’t go to uni. He just worked in trading metal futures.”

“You can talk to him about metal,” Harry suggests.

Liam laughs. “Right! ‘D’you know Wolverhampton -- we had metal once, but we don’t anymore.’”

“‘Plus I also almost didn’t go to uni, but then I did, actually,’” Harry jokes. “And then you offer him a scone.”

“Foolproof banter, absolutely.” Liam starts loosening his tie. “Tommo, I think I want tonight for my reel too, what's the login to the cloud server?”

“Username’s itvnews, password is --” Louis smirks “-- one two three four.”

Liam nods, not getting it until he notices Louis’ expression. He twigs, then, and scowls at him. “Can you fuck off?” he says, laughing.

“Password’s just itvnews again, but in all caps.”

They head out to the newsroom; Liam and Niall start discussing whether or not Ronda Rousey is mounting a winter comeback, and Harry tugs on Louis’ sleeve and stops him in the doorway.

“D’you think it’s even worth it to apply for the weekend desk spot?” he says quietly, studying Louis’ face. “The deadline’s in a few days.”

“I dunno,” Louis says, looking into his eyes. “I mean, what’s your end goal, like? D’you feel like you’re burning out on the daily reporter grind?”

“I’m only just marking six years in the business,” Harry says, with a little laugh. “So I hope I'm not quite there yet. But presenting would be great for my resume.”

“I just ask ‘cos you're still turning really good packages, and I think losin’ you would be a blow to my show.”

“You were the one who wanted me to be up for Jonathan’s post originally,” Harry points out.

“I know, I know… I think I was sort of hasty, with that. I just hated that Simon didn't even consider you for it.”

“I know. That rubbed me the wrong way, too.” Harry sighs. “Like, Paul could have asked me if I was interested, at the very least.”

“Right… Shit. We hadn’t really talked about all this since it happened, had we?”

Harry flaps his hand as if to tell him not to worry about it. “I dunno what my chances of getting it even are now, anyway. Since I wasn't considered for it the first go round...”

“Well, Simon did ask for talent to apply directly this time, didn't he? Even odds he promotes from within or finds some random again, like he did with Liam.”

“I know they’ve gotten, like, a few hundred applications so far,” Harry murmurs, and bites his bottom lip. “So…”

He trails off.

“Y’know,” Louis says, “I know things aren’t, like… it’s not going to go back to how it was before we broke up, but I’m still here, mate. Especially for things like this.”

Harry nods. “I know,” he says. “Sorry if I’ve been distant lately. But, I mean... you’ve sort of had your hands full, haven’t you?”

“Have I?”

“With Liam, and everything.”

Louis glances away. “Right. Sorry.”

Harry smiles his sunny smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I do miss you sometimes,” Louis says softly, and then folds his arms as if to protect himself from the possibility Harry not feeling the same way. “Just, us bein’ tight.”

But Harry nods. “Me too.”

 

/

 

The night before the big Farage sit-down, everyone goes out. Liam and Louis make a pact in the Uber over that they won't drink; Niall swears not to, but runs into some other friends of his and is pressured into having a beer, which becomes two and so on.

Hours at a pub stretch out interminably for Louis when he's sober. He curls up in a booth looking at his phone while everyone else flutters around, their attention spans slashed by drinking. Liam mostly hangs out at the pub, chatting with the barman, Michael and Andy.

Louis leaves him be. They've seen plenty of each other lately.

He does watch him, though, without meaning to. He stares at Liam’s taut body, the V of his chest into his waist. He's in even better shape, lately, like he's been working out extra hard since he found out he was getting Walsh’s job.

Louis ultimately breaks the rules and orders a drink.

When it comes, he rests his head back against the wood seat of the booth. He's so full of longing right now, there isn't room for anything else, not common sense or trepidation. Just a desperate, lonely passion with nowhere to expend itself.

Normally he can keep the longing at bay, but then when he thinks maybe he's free of it, it smacks him like a wave and sends him tumbling. It's getting worse lately. He's tumbling all the time now.

He closes his eyes, thinking about Liam’s hands on his body. He wonders how Liam kisses.

“Tommo.”

Louis’ heart quickens and he opens his eyes. It's Nick, unfortunately, hovering over him and grinning.

“You look sad,” he says.

“I'm not sad,” Louis protests. “I’m thinking.”

“Can I sit and think with you?”

“Aye, go ahead.”

Nick starts peeling the label off his beer bottle as soon as he slides into the booth. “So,” he says, and jerks his head at Liam. “You fancy our boy?”

“Says who?” Louis snaps.

“You've been staring at him all night like a starving dog. Plus, Harry says you do.”

“Harry’s got no idea who I fancy.”

“Oh, Louis,” Nick sighs. “Why do you fight it so hard? Being a poof? It's quite fun if you just, uh, what's that bird at Facebook say? Lean in? It's fun if you just lean in.”

“I'm not gay,” Louis says quietly, running his finger up and down his whiskey glass and keeping an eye out that no one is listening to them. “I've dated more women than men. Why am I always explainin’ myself to you?”

“That's your other problem,” Nick says, steamrolling right over him. “You don't _date_. You get hitched at the outset, and then it's a serious thing for months on end.”

This is fairly true. He'd had girlfriends in secondary, then gotten serious fast with Eleanor in uni, and then when they went long-distance for work and broke up from the strain of it, he'd had a succession of shorter serious relationships.

Then he was single again, but very briefly, because Harry confessed to him that he had feelings for him, and they got together; then straight after the two of them broke up he got back with Eleanor. All in all, the six months he's been single this last go-round is the longest he ever has been.

“I sleep around,” he says. He does, in his short single windows. It's the only way he meets men, normally: Harry's the only bloke he's ever done more than sleep with.

It's just most men are sort of mean, and Harry never was.

“There's a difference between having one-night stands and dating casually, Louis. I mean like go out with people, chat them up, get to know them even if it won't go anywhere. Not feel obligated to settle down with every single one of them. Keep a few irons in the fire at once. Keep your dick wet. You know. _Date_.”

“That sounds lonely, mate.”

Nick shrugs. “One man’s lonely is another man’s… I dunno, having someone to take to the function, having someone to make out with in the taxi, but getting to go home alone and fart in peace.”

“I don't like to go home alone,” Louis mutters. “Farts aside. So -- right now, you're sleepin’ around with several people, and that just happens to include Harry?”

Nick gives him a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and pulls the final piece of his beer sticker off. “What do you care?”

“I think he deserves better.”

“Did it occur to you he likes this sort of arrangement, and that he's got his own similar one?”

Louis’ jaw twitches. “Even so.”

“The only reason he was all monogamous and husbandy with you,” Nick says, “is ‘cos that's how you wanted it, and he loved you. And it didn't work out, and you ran straight back to your uni girlfriend to play house for the entire ten minutes _that_ lasted for --”

“Fine, Nick, fine -- I’m just a fuckin’ idiot romantic then, I'm stupid, I'm doin’ it all wrong, you're a _genius_ \--”

“Louis, I'm only trying to help you.”

“Are you?” Louis splutters.

“Well, at _best_ you're pining after a fuckin’ closet case,” Nick whispers, “and you've only got half a foot out of the closet yourself! You know, why don't you go on some dates with some nice blokes? I can set you up. You haven't got to go have a fuck in an alley with some prick off Grindr when you want to be with a man. You can meet men who’ll take you out for a nice meal, treat you good, and you haven't got to marry any of them. Doesn't that sound nice?”

Louis sags against the booth, miserable. The lights above him swim in his vision. He just wants Liam, Liam’s what he wants.

“If you're really so _concerned_ for me,” he says, his voice raspy and reedy. “Why don't you let me sort these things out for myself?”

“You won't twig without me. You're too stubborn.”

“Right, I’ll phrase it less politely. Why don't you fuck off?”

Nick gets up, shaking his head. “Whatever. But one more thing. I'm not the enemy just ‘cos I’m with your ex.”

“I know! I know.”

“He's a big boy, Harry is.”

“Nick! I know!”

Nick cocks an eyebrow. “You go around starting up with me like you do, people will think you've still got feelings for him.”

“I don't,” Louis swears. “I really don't. It's just, I don't love you fucking him, is all.”

“Yeah, I know, you're sort of a brat about it.”

“But --”

“But?”

“You might have a point.”

“Tommo. Of course I do.”

Louis studies him. “You really think Liam’s, like…”

Nick lets out a little sigh and leans his hands on the table, getting right up to Louis’ ear.

“All I know,” he says, “is he's got a serious case of gay face, and he looks at you like you hung the moon. That's it.”

“I can't,” Louis whispers to him, his heart falling. He’d been hoping, maybe foolishly, that Nick had more proof than this. That Liam had actually said something to him. “Mate, we work together so closely, I can't risk it --”

“You risked it with Harold.”

“Right, and look how that turned out. And it's worse than that, innit, if he doesn't even reciprocate?”

Nick pauses, searching Louis’ eyes with his own dark ones.

“You think he'd get the gay panic?” he says.

“No,” Louis says, miserable again. “He’d fuckin’ be, y’know -- very understandin’ and kind about it. And never look at me the same way again.”

“I think if you could see how he _does_ look at you,” Nick murmurs, “maybe you wouldn't doubt it so much. Um, right… Anyway. Think about it.”

He gives Louis a clumsy pat on the shoulder and makes his way back to the crowd.

Louis picks up his glass and drains what's left of the whiskey, diluted by melted ice.

Niall fairly quickly takes Nick’s place across from him. “Grimmy givin’ you a hard time?”

Louis laughs into his glass. He glances over at Liam again, who's laughing it up at the bar. He feels a childish pang of jealousy. He wishes Liam would just come pay attention to him.

“Just discussing Harry.”

Niall sucks in some air through his teeth. “Oh, alright.”

“No drama, no drama. Well, a bit of drama.”

“What’s goin’ on wit’ them?” Niall says, sipping his beer. “And I thought you said you weren't drinkin’ tonight?”

Louis shushes him and covers his empty glass with his hands. “I ain't done it, I’ve been framed. Who, Harry and Nick? Just casual, apparently. Nick wanted to come over and tell me all about how Harry’s sleeping around with whoever and how I ought to be doing the same.”

Niall scoffs and shakes his head. “Do whatever feels good to you, lad,” he says. “Nick’s an overgrown party boy. He just wants to justify it, don't listen to him.”

“Thanks, Neil.” Louis pauses. “Did you know Harry’s been, y’know, doing that?”

“Uhh… I did. I did. Didn't feel like that was something you needed t’ hear about.”

Louis smiles crookedly. “Ah, I’m a big boy.”

“Aren't we all, allegedly?”

“We've been broken up a year now,” Louis points out. He tries to math it out in his tired brain. They broke up, then straight away he went into the six months with Eleanor, and he ended things with her right before his birthday.

She'd insisted they give it another month, since it's a tough time of year for him, but he'd just smiled and told her not to worry.

“Right, but…” Niall shrugs. “Just made me sad. Whole thing was sad. I don't like seein’ you two mope around like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! You're me sunshine boys.”

Louis grins at him. “Come off it… You're _our_ sunshine boy.”

Niall snorts.

Perrie comes over, then, four or five sheets to the wind and looking like a gun moll in leather. “Howdy doodly,” she says, squishing in next to Louis and throwing an arm around him.

He gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Hi Geordie girl.”

“Hi Yorkshire boy. What’re we talking about?”

“Never you mind,” Louis says.

“You getting maudlin? You look it.”

“I'm not even drinking, tonight!”

“He _did_ drink,” Niall says, accusatory. “And we’ve got Nigel tomorrow.”

“Nigel can sod off.”

“Agreed, but we’ve got to interview him before he does, ‘cos we’ve already blocked off the time to run it.”

“You don't want to disappoint your lima bean,” Perrie says. “He's proper excited for this, it's all he talked about this week.”

“Really?” Louis says, and glances back over at him. Harry’s just arrived, and Liam’s giggling with him at the bar over something.

“Yeah, he's like a little kid. I mean, it's cool stuff for someone who's mostly been talking to cricket players for the last six years.”

“Right,” Louis murmurs, watching Liam laugh and feeling fond of him.

The night wears on; around eleven Louis and Niall start making noises about going home and try to corral Liam, who is the only one of them that hasn't had a drink but keeps getting engaged in conversations and reluctant to leave any of them.

“Noo,” Liam says, as they drag him away from Jade, Leigh, Perrie and Jesy. “Noo, it can't be that late!”

“He’s having fun, leave him be!” says a drunken Perrie, and they all chorus their agreement.

“It's eleven thirty,” Louis says. “I don't care about the sleep bit, but d'you want bags under your eyes tomorrow?”

“Oh, shit,” Liam says. “No, let’s go.”

“Liam!” Harry says, leaning back from the bar and beckoning him. “Good luck tomorrow... I emailed you a few question ideas I had, just in case.”

“Thanks, mate. And those articles you sent were super helpful.”

Harry pats Liam on the cheek; Liam takes his hand and kisses it, and Harry cracks up.

While Niall and Liam try to hail a taxi (Louis suggested an Uber, but Niall had made a face. “They're a bunch of union-busters, lad!”) Louis leans on the front window to the pub, smoking.

Perrie sticks her head out the front door. He offers her his cig and she gratefully accepts, taking a long drag.

“You really ought to quit,” she says.

Louis scuffs the soles of his trainers on the ground. “But then who’d you bum them off of when you drink?”

“Fair point,” she says, ashing.

They watch as Liam nearly falls into the street desperately flagging down a cab.

Louis takes a drag. “Just get an Addison Lee,” he calls to them, shaking his head to get his fringe out of his eyes. His hair’s gone long on him when he wasn't paying attention.

“We can get one,” Niall yells back, as Liam takes a defeated seat on the curb. “Patience, Tommo.”

“Alright, lads.”

“He hasn't got any faith in us,” Liam tells Niall soberly.

“Wrong,” Louis calls, and Liam looks back at him, eyes twinkling. Louis daintily drops his cigarette, grinds it under his heel and gives Liam a little smile. “I've got all the faith in the world.”

“Good,” Liam says, his lips twitching up in a matching smile. “Like to hear that.”

“Like to tell you, Payno,” Louis flirts.

“Mmm,” Liam says, grinning.

“Do you have me hoodie?” Louis says, glancing around for it. “I want another smoke.”

Liam nods and brings it over; he was carrying it underneath his own jacket. For a moment he works to dig Louis’ pack of Marlboro Lights out of the pocket.

His dress shoes have got about an inch of heel, so he somewhat looms over the two of them, looking handsome in the gold light of the street lamps.

Finally he produces the smokes and hands them to Louis.

“Thanks,” Louis says, glancing up at him. They stare at each other a moment, still both holding onto the pack. It’s a damp night, and the cars swoosh wetly as they go by in the street.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Liam says, and he reaches up to push it away from his face. Louis’ skin burns wherever his fingers brush.

“You know,” Louis says softly, “funny, I was just thinking that.”

“I like it,” Liam says. “It’s like, punk.”

Louis’ heart flutters. He searches his mind for a way to goof on Liam for saying this, but nothing comes to him.

“Good,” is all he says.

Perrie clears her throat and Louis starts. He'd entirely forgotten she was standing there.

“I'm going back in,” she says. “It's chilly. Night, boys. Good luck tomorrow!”

They all chorus their thanks, and then Niall shouts that a cab’s come, and the moment is broken.

But Louis feels Liam watching him as they roll along through London. Niall sits up front and chats up the driver, and the two of them sit in back, separated by one seat.

Louis has one of his impulsive urges, then. He wants to scoot over. He fidgets for a moment, and then just does it.

Liam stills for a moment, and wraps an arm around his waist.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Louis murmurs back. “I'm sleepy.”

That's just a cover. He really isn't; he's wired. He could run a mile, right now.

“Don't fall asleep,” Liam says, stroking his back. “You get dropped off last.”

“Right, right.”

“The cabbie’ll take you back to his house by accident.”

“No I bloody won't,” the cabbie exclaims, and they all laugh.

Louis leans back against Liam, into the crook of his arm. Liam turns and rests his brow against the side of Louis’ head; Louis barely breathes.

“Little nervous about tomorrow,” Liam whispers in his ear, as if nothing funny is going on.

“You'll be fine,” Louis says.

“Yeah?”

If Liam moved an inch closer to him, his lips would be pressed to Louis’ skull, his mouth mingling with strands of hair. If his hand were six inches lower it would be on Louis’ arse. These are the things Louis thinks about, as he stares straight ahead of him at Niall’s elbow resting on the compartment between the front seats, out the windscreen at the street lights passing rapidly over them as they move down the road.

He asks himself if he thinks Liam wants to touch him like that. There's no answer, only silence. His intuition, usually the most powerful item in his journalistic toolkit, offers nothing to him but question marks.

He can't tell, because he wants it so badly to be true. Louis can't see where the blind hope ends and the truth begins.

Their lengths of their thighs are pressed to each other. If Louis moved over more he'd be in Liam’s lap. If he turned his head they could kiss.

He probes his intuition again and finds yet more nothing.

Liam is nuzzled up against him, comfortable as a dog, his hand still clasped to the dip of Louis’ waist. Louis tingles where their bodies meet. Touching him feels so good; it's like fizzy champagne bubbles in his gut.

“Yeah,” Louis finally says. “You're prepared. You're, um…”

Liam draws back from him and gazes at him with that puppydog look of his. Up front, the cabbie and Niall have gone silent. Louis prays Niall has noticed none of this and is absorbed in his phone.

“You've got this one.”

“It's less Farage that worries me,” Liam says softly, “and more -- I hope the viewers like it. It won't be too dry, you don't think?”

“We’ll punch it up. Sharp cuts. Make it…” Louis drops his voice in an imitation of Simon. “Fun for the kids. You know.”

Liam laughs and rests his head against Louis’ again. Louis settles back more closely against his body.

Liam’s soft to lie on, his well-cut muscles lax, his posture slumpy. Louis closes his eyes. He could fall asleep like this, easy.

Liam takes Louis’ hand, at first walking his fingers slowly over Louis’ palm like he's asking it a question, and then just entwining them together and squeezing Louis’ (really sort of hard, he doesn't know his own strength, but Louis doesn't mind).

They're just holding hands, now, in the back of this taxi.

“Thanks for this,” Liam says.

For one insane moment, Louis thinks he means thanks for holding hands.

“For putting the interview together,” Liam clarifies.

“Oh, ‘course, lad. Looking forward to it.”

They pull up in front of Niall’s flat a short time later, and the two of them separate without looking at each other. It's a bit different to snuggle in the back of a cab without your mate up front.

When they get to Liam’s flat, that lovely building with the fancy shutters and rooftop garden, Louis watches him go -- biting his lip hard so he doesn't open his mouth and say something he’ll regret.

Like, _can I come inside?_ Like _I want to sleep in your bed with you._ Like, _wait, Payno. Wait. Come here. Come back here. Touch me. Take my face in your nice hands and kiss me. Pick me up out of this taxi and drag me into your house, lay me down on your living room floor and make love to me. Stare at me with that look you get when you think I'm being brilliant. I want to stare at you with the same look._

“Night!” he yells.

“Night!” Liam yells back, bouncing up the stairs, digging his keys out of his pocket.


	13. Chapter 13

The next morning, Liam remembers the cuddling in the taxi and cringes while he brushes his teeth.

He knows well enough by now that Louis likes to flirt, that he's handsy. What's he doing reading into it? He spits in the sink and begs himself not to be pathetic.

Liam fetches his suit from the dry cleaner on his way to work, and goes in a side door once he gets there, making his way through back hallways to the dressing room.

He flips the lock behind him. He’s feeling strange and insecure today; he doesn’t want anyone to see him before he’s got his armor all together. Beard trimmed, suit on, hair quiffed, concealer applied. He’s got to look like Liam Payne, six o’clock news presenter, not -- he squints unkindly at himself in the mirror -- a _farmboy_.

His face has changed in the last few years, but he’s still too cute, he sometimes thinks. Harry looks older than him, even though it’s the other way around. He’s got that face full of sharp angles and those piercing eyes. Liam wonders more often lately why Simon didn’t give Harry this job instead.

Louis seems convinced it’s because Simon thinks he comes across as too gay or too sexy or something. Liam has no idea if that’s true or not, if Louis is projecting, if he’s just protective of his ex-boyfriend. It’s hard to tell around here what’s a fact and what’s a feeling. It’s worse than it was at Four, because it’s such a tight crew. Real intentions and hard truths get muddled.

As he gets his suit on, Liam flashes on when Sophia first came up to him at a pub two years ago. He was half-afraid she was having him on, because she was there with people they’d gone to school with. He’d even maybe been a bit distant with her (he did buy her a drink, of course) but when they went outside for air, she’d kissed him.

“You’ve changed a lot,” Sophia said when they separated. “I almost didn’t even recognize you.”

Liam had just gazed at her and said nothing. He didn’t feel like he’d changed at all, not on the inside. He still doesn’t.

 

/

 

“Who said Louis should drive, again?” Liam says, as they screech to a halt at a red, coming to a stop half in the crosswalk.

“Not me,” Niall says, letting go of the oh-shit strap.

“‘Scuse me!” Louis exclaims. “Who wasn't ready to go on time? Who was runnin’ around the studio looking for a camera battery at half eight?”

“What’s that got to with your maniac driving?” Liam says. “You maniac?”

He's usually the one to drive if they have to go anywhere together, after Louis backed his Fiesta into his trash bins with Liam in the car back in March and reassured him by saying, “No worries, lad, I always hit those.”

“We’re late, and I'm trying to get us there!”

The light turns and Louis honks theatrically at a Jetta that’s running a red across the intersection, then slams on the gas. Liam shakes his head and tries to focus on the notes in his lap.

“And I'm hungover,” Niall moans into his hands.

“That's why you shouldn't’ve drank,” Louis tells him.

“Yeah, but peer pressure…”

“Wah wah.”

“Farage,” Liam says aloud. “Fair-aaage. Farage. Carriage. Nigel Carriage. Leader of the UKIP group. Do we say UKIP? What’s the Oxford on that?”

“I think read out t’ whole thing on first reference, right?” Niall says. “Then UKIP every time after.”

Louis blows his horn at a slow bloke ahead of them. The bloke turns to scowl at him, and he gives him the finger.

“Louis, when we’re in a car with a big bloody ITV logo on the side, can you not be telling people to fuck themselves?” Liam says.

“Alright, _Paul_.”

“Don’t Paul me! I care about the brand!”

“Well, so do I!” Louis says. “But I care more about not bein’ late to this interview!”

Liam tosses his notes down in exasperation. “If you care about the interview so much, you wouldn't be stressing me out!”

They both fall into reproachful silence. A minute or so goes by, and then they try to apologize at the exact same time and end up laughing.

“We’ll get there, lads,” Niall assures them from the backseat. “‘S’not the end of the world.”

 

/

 

They do get there on time, and Liam and Louis start taking the piss out of each other immediately. In the elevator up to Farage’s office, Louis chirps in a mocking voice, “I care about the _braaaaand!_ ” and Liam responds by making car crash noises, which causes Niall to slump against the elevator wall trying not to laugh too loudly.

“Least I don't drive like someone's fuckin’ grandmother!”

“Sorry, I can't hear you over all the police sirens!”

“I can’t hear _you_ over bein’ twenty minutes late to everythin’!”

“That’s just nonsense. That's a nonsense sentence.”

“Okay, _Dad_.”

The elevator door opens; Niall carries the camera out into the hall. Louis goes to follow him, but Liam gently tugs on the back of his shirt.

Louis looks up at him, puckish but subdued, even obedient. Liam has an internal spasm of attraction to him and pushes it away.

“Don't call me Dad,” he instructs.

“Fine, Payno,” Louis says softly. His eyes are half-lidded, his smile flirty.

“How's my hair?”

“Good. Looks good.”

Satisfied, Liam lets go of him. Louis doesn't move a muscle, for a moment. He just keeps looking at Liam curiously.

“Lads,” Niall says. “Liam’s hair besides, we _will_ be late if we don't get a move on.”

“We’re moving, Neil,” Louis says, and slinks away from Liam and down the hall. The spell is broken. But Liam still watches him as he moves, watches the feminine way he moves his hips, the coiled energy in his steps.

“Y’know, that Neil bit wasn't funny nine years ago and it ain't funny now.” Niall says this with the good-naturedness of someone who knows their dynamic will never actually change,

“I know,” Louis says, and he turns to wink at Liam, walking backwards now. “But you love me anyway, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately,” Niall says with a grin.

 

/

 

Nigel Farage is nice to them -- too nice, a villainous sort of nice. He shakes all their hands and introduces them to his aides, and then in a very clearly choreographed bit of theatre, a third aide comes in and whispers to him.

“Oh, you're kidding!” he exclaims to her. She shakes her head.

Daylight streams in through the window. Louis turns to see that Niall is parting the curtains so he can get better light as he sets up his shot.

“Boys, I’m terribly sorry,” Nigel says, standing. “Bollocks. I've had a lunch with some donors get bumped up.” He sighs, like he really thinks they might buy that he'd rather be getting grilled by journos than eating lobster and greasing palms. “I’d hate to reschedule you --”

Niall stops fussing with the curtains and sidles up beside Liam, folding his arms.

“That's alright,” Louis says airily. “We've blocked the whole day off. We’ll be here when you get back.”

His face falls just a fraction of an inch, and then he beams brightly. “Great! You can leave your equipment here, if you like.”

Hattie, the lone female aide, leads them out into the hall and closes Nigel’s office behind him.

Niall looks at his watch. “Think I’ve got time t’ go and get lunch?”

“What, you'll take the car and strand us here?” Louis says, laughing.

“You'll live,” Niall says cheerfully. “I can bring you back a chip butty.”

“You'd better!”

“Could you pick me up a Coke Zero too?” Liam says.

“Sure, lad.”

“Oi,” Louis says to one of the aides, who's wandered away toward the bay of cubicles down the hall. He looks up, turns around and comes back to them. “What was your name?”

“Sam,” says the aide.

“Sam. Right. Good to meet you, mate. Is there sort of a spot where you lot congregate?”

Sam looks confused. Liam helpfully adds, “We’d like to talk to some Labour aides if we can, is the thing.”

“Ohh… Well, we do have an aides pickup game at the gym down the road, most Thursdays. I'll have to check the group text if it's happening today.”

Liam and Louis exchange a glance.

“What sport?” Louis says.

“Basketball.”

 

/

 

“This is silly,” Liam whispers as they trail behind Sam on the sidewalk. “I'm in a suit.”

“He said they've got extra kits!”

“Still...”

“Look,” Louis whispers. Sam rounds a corner and disappears behind a hedge; he quickens his pace. “This is journalism, right? Things --” (he snaps his fingers in a circle) “-- change on a dime, y’know?”

Liam nods and sighs.

"Think jazz, like." Louis takes him by the bicep. “C’mon, Deano.”

Liam gives him a smile. “C’mon, Frankie.”

“You’re just lettin’ Farage get in your head. But the thing is, you’ve got all the power here. We’re going to get in _his_ head. We’re going to pump Sam like a keg.”

They both look down the road at Sam, who’s especially ginger in the bright sunlight and is squinting at his phone. He looks young, and not particularly pumpable.

“Look,” Louis says, intent. He takes Liam by the shoulders. “Keep what’s going on here at the front of your mind. Anythin’ we can get, here, that we can use to trip Farage up in an interview -- anythin’ that casts doubt on this shit they’re peddling -- the UK is full of good people, I really believe that, people that don’t want this shitty thing to happen. Just keep thinking about that, and keep thinking about it when you talk to him.”

Liam nods reluctantly. Louis pushes him in the chest. “Go on!”

They continue on down the sidewalk. Sam glances up when they reach him.

“All good?” he says.

“Yeah, just shop talk,” Louis says.

“When your photographer gets back, you should tell him that Nigel’s best side is his left side,” Sam says.

“So, Liam sits camera right?” says Liam.

“You talk in third person now?” Louis teases. “The royal Liam?”

Liam winks at him. “You ain’t impressed I can work that out in my head?”

“What, right from left? No, not _too_ impressed, mate.”

Liam swats his arse, and Louis swats him back. Sam watches all of this with a sort of blunted curiosity.

 

/

 

The gym is old, chilly and smells abandoned. Louis undresses quickly so he doesn't have to be shivering in his pants for long. Liam dresses more slowly next to him, seeming lost in thought.

Louis tries not to look at him directly, even though he takes up a large chunk of his peripheral. He hates how nice and solid he's built. He imagines Liam crushing him down against the bedspread, a palm pressed hard to his lower back. A tingle shoots up his spine.

He laces the borrowed trainers quickly. Around them, there's slamming lockers as aides file in and start shucking off their dress shirts, neck badges and slacks.

“Oi,” says a nondescript bloke who looks a little older than Louis as he comes over to them. “I'm Preston, I work under Corbyn. Sam said you two wanted to talk to someone with Labour?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says, reaching out to shake his hand. “Definitely. Could we grab you after the match?”

“You can. That's actually my lunch break, but you're free to pick my brain while I eat.”

“Perfect,” Liam says. “By the way, I’m Liam -- this is Louis, he's field producing today.”

“Liam Payne,” Preston says, grinning. “I actually know you from Four.”

“No shit! Neato.”

“My mum loves you, we always took the piss out of her. Her little sports boyfriend Liam. Now she makes fun of us, ‘cos you're the big time.”

“Your mum knows how to pick a winner,” Louis says. “Does she play the ponies?”

Liam snorts.

Preston laughs. “Not that I know of.”

“Preston,” another bloke calls out, slamming his locker shut. “Labour ready to take another L? You got the body bags ready?”

“Before we start talking shit, can someone actually let me know what the teams are?” Preston says, laughing.

“Tories vers Labour, SNP and everyone else?”

“What team are my journos on?” Sam calls.

Preston eyes them. “Depends, how good are they at basketball?”

“Half-decent,” Louis says.

“I'm a better ball handler, but Louis plays nasty,” Liam says.

“ _Nasty_ is the wrong word.”

“Oh, ‘scuse me. He is, um, _aggressive_.”

“How tall are you, ball handler?” asks the shit-talking bloke.

“Five eleven,” Liam supplies.

“Bullshit,” Louis says, turning to him. “You can't be five eleven, Liam, I'm five nine. You aren't two inches taller.”

The shit-talking bloke comes over. “Stand back to back with me, I'm five eleven too. Name’s Billy, by the way.”

Liam complies. “What's up, Billy? You Tory?”

“Yeah mate!” Billy says, as Preston comes over and puts his phone flat to the top of their heads. “Work under Theresa.”

“They're the same height, Louis,” Preston confirms.

“You sure you're five nine, Tommo?” Liam says.

“Aye, fairly sure.”

He's actually a hair over five eight and a half, but he's not going to advertise that right before a game of basketball.

Liam comes over and gets in his space. Louis looks up at him, keeping his cool despite a flurry of butterflies in his stomach.

“That sounds about right,” Liam says. “Two inches? That feels right to me.”

“Or, you just _think_ that ‘cos you're always in dress shoes,” Louis murmurs, looking up at him.

Liam grins. “Maybe.”

They linger for a second, and then separate, Louis growing self-protectively aware of the tight ring of masculinity around them. He gives Liam a ball tap to cover for himself; Liam hisses _ow_ and half-heartedly whaps him on the arm.

“Let’s play some basketball, lads,” someone shouts, and is met with a chorus of _oi oi_ s.

 

/

 

They end up on the Tory team. Liam is great out on the court; totally absorbed in the action, focused on the ball. Meanwhile, Louis plays shittier than normal because he’s so focused on sizing everyone up.

He thinks maybe they could grab Billy, but what would Theresa May’s aide have to tell them about Brexit? They all know May doesn’t really want to leave, same as Cameron. That doesn’t give them any cudgel with which to club Farage with.

Preston’s the only one who’ll do. Louis realizes this watching him, watching the way he defers to the other players, the wary glances he gives the two UKIP aides on the court.

When Louis passes Liam during a time-out, he grabs him by the jersey and pulls him in close.

“Foul Preston,” he whispers in his ear.

Liam blinks at him. “Why?”

“I want to see how he reacts.”

Louis is hoping Liam doesn’t question this; they only have a moment to talk, and if there’s anything he knows he understands intuitively, it’s the psychology and social game theory of teams.

Liam doesn’t. “Alright,” he says cheerfully.

He stuffs Preston as soon as he gets the opportunity, stymying his attempt to hit a three and stalling the score at 18-18. It’s a technical foul, but no one calls him on it. Preston catches a lot of shit for this from his teammates. Liam looks a bit guilty.

And then something happens that Louis absolutely did not expect: he catches a lucky pass and drives to the net for a layup, and Preston, wanting to redeem himself, tries to stuff him.

Abruptly there’s a blinding pain in Louis’ mouth, and then he tastes iron. He bends over, his vision going dark from the pain. The basketball hits the ground and bounces away, dribbling itself, _thunk thunk thunk_. Trainers squeak on the court, and the Tories all cheer. He must have made it in.

There’s a beat before anyone realizes what happened. Someone gasps, and Preston mewls loudly in pain, peering at his own bloodied elbow.

“Tommo, Jesus,” Liam exclaims, shoving through the throng of players to get to him. There’s worry in his voice. “What happened?”

Louis tries to tell him, but he just ends up spitting out blood. Liam grips his bicep and takes his face in his other hand, tilting his chin up to examine him.

“Oh, fuck!” Preston says in shock, finally looking up from his arm. “Did _I_ do that? Bloody hell...”

“Way to go, wanker,” shouts one of the Tories. “You fuckin’ killing journalists out here?”

“The Telegraph’d love that story,” Sam says. “ _Labour aide elbows journalist to death_.”

Louis laughs, which causes blood to trickle down his chin. Liam sucks in air.

“He’d just got us a point, too,” Billy mutters as he walks off court to fetch the basketball.

“I’s alrigh’, boys,” Louis says thickly, because Preston looks mortified and Liam is fussing over him. “I been ‘it in the mouf before. ‘S’no big deal.”

“But you’re bleeding a lot,” Liam says, and very gently runs his fingers along Louis’ lower lip. If they weren’t standing under ugly fluorescent lights, surrounded by unpleasant sweaty blokes in basketball kits, and Louis wasn’t bleeding copiously, he would go weak at the knees from this. “Man... Did your teeth go through your lip or something?”

Louis nods. “Think so.”

“Let’s go in the supply room,” Preston says, sort of urgently. “They’ve got first aid kits.”

Everyone claps for Louis as he leaves them; he turns and blows his teammates two-handed kisses, and they all laugh.

Off the court, Liam herds him like a nervous sheepdog while Louis tries to concentrate on bleeding as little as possible.

The supply closet is claustrophobic and sort of dark. Louis steps over a fallen broom and takes a dainty seat on a toolbox. Liam waits, hands on his hips, as Preston digs around in the back.

“At leas’ I made the shot,” Louis says, and spits blood on the floor.

Liam smiles. “It was a good one, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing but net. I watched it go in.”

“Sick,” Louis says appreciatively.

Preston reappears, holding out a first aid kit.

“I dunno how much that’ll help,” he says. “I think you might need stitches?”

“No,” Louis says, getting anxious. “We’ve got ‘is in’erview --”

“Tommo, me and Niall can always handle that by ourselves if you’ve got to go.”

“No, no.” Louis presses his hand to his mouth. The bleeding has mostly stopped. He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror propped up in the corner. He looks sort of crazy: sweaty, hair all askew, his front covered in blood.

Liam applies antibiotic ointment to Preston’s elbow and bandages him up with care. Preston looks between them all anxiously.

“This won’t get back to anyone, will it?” he says.

“We don’t snitch,” Louis assures him, and spits again.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” Liam says. “We’re not out here trying to do a hit piece, don’t worry. If we were doing like, I dunno, a magazine profile, this’d probably make it in, but, y’know. We’re just blokes from the telly.”

“Jus’ some salt of the earth blokes from the telly mines,” Louis says, and they all laugh.

“Alright, good,” Preston says. “Corbyn’s stressed right now, we don’t need the bad press.”

“Stressed?” Liam repeats.

“Yeah. I mean he’s totally caught in the middle between, you know, Project Fear and the UKIP nutters. And he does want to leave the EU, obviously.” Preston hesitates. “But I feel like -- I dunno, the political repercussions are so much worse for him if we _do_ leave. It’s between betraying the MPs and betraying the voters. It could crack the party open.”

“Sounds like you think it's a possibility,” Liam says, eyeing him carefully.

Louis hardly breathes, not wanting to break the bubble of this moment or scare Preston off. It’s like a butterfly has landed on Liam. They’ve both gone extremely still.

Preston glances between them. “This isn’t on the record.”

They nod intently at him.

“Deep background,” Liam says.

“We’ve got this new data, since they launched their bus campaign,” Preston says. “We can’t really cite it or nothing. ‘Cos it’s, um -- it’s illegal bookies.”

Liam’s eyebrows shoot up, and he blinks.

“You know, ‘cos like -- betting markets are generally favoring Remain, right? But if you check in with the illegal bookies -- they’re nearly all giving much closer odds.”

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Louis says in amazement.

“The government consults with illegal bookies?” Liam says.

Preston nods. “Well, not _directly_. MI6 leaked it to us. Again, seriously deep background.”

Liam turns to Louis. “So -- what? Leave’s got a good chance to happen?”

Louis stares at the floor, his mouth throbbing in pain, the gears in his fast little brain churning.

“I need to call Stan,” he mutters.

“Stan?”

“Me friend Stan, from school. He’s a bookie. A legal one, but --” His tooth catches his lip and he winces. “‘Ey all know each other.”

“Just leave me out of it,” Preston says. “You never talked to me.” He laughs ruefully. “And I never busted your lip open.”

Louis gives him a thumbs up.

“Thanks for the pointer,” Liam says to him.

Preston nods, somewhat reluctantly.

 

/

 

“I feel sort of slimy,” Liam says as they walk back to the building where Farage’s office is. He’s got his suit back on, and Louis has cleaned the blood off himself as best as he can.

Louis glances over at him. “It’s the cost of doin’ business sometimes, Payno.”

“I know. How’s the lip?”

“Fine. Not bleedin’ anymore. Thank God he busted me face open, or I dunno if we’d have gotten anything out of them.”

Liam slips an arm over his shoulders. “It _was_ sort of handy, wasn’t it?”

“Fuckin’ right it was,” Louis says, grinning briefly.

“Every time I’ve got a tough interview, we’ll just have to manufacture a way to get you injured.”

“I don’t think Britain’s short of people who want to crack me one in the mouth, so.”

Liam laughs again, harder this time, the nice sound of it ringing out in the pleasant May air.

 

/

 

They end up waiting another hour before Farage shows. Niall is horrified by Louis’ swollen lip and the bruise blossoming on his chin; he wanders off and brings back a handful of Tylenol from somewhere. Maybe Hattie. Girls usually keep a little bottle in their desks, in Louis’ experience.

Liam takes the ice out of the Coke Niall brought him and wraps it up in kitchen paper, then hands it to Louis.

“I'm fine, lads, truly,” he says, pressing the makeshift icepack to his lip.

Liam snorts and reaches down to wipe some dried blood out of his eyebrow. “You’re a mess.”

“I’m a mess, but I’m fine.”

“That’s the motto,” Niall says.

When Farage gets in, he's all fake smiles, like he expected them to have given up on him and left. He and Liam take their seats, and Louis goes over to consult with Niall on lighting and angles. They set the two cameras up, and while Niall goes around white balancing all of these, Louis comes over to get Farage’s lav mic on.

“Goodness, what's happened to you, Tomlinson?” he exclaims.

“We played basketball with the aides while we waited for you,” Liam explains.

Louis clips the mic onto him and straightens up.

“Ahh, catch an elbow?” Farage says.

Louis looks into his dead fishy politician’s eyes, the soulless brown irises.

“Aye, unfortunately,” he says, and smiles thinly.

“Whenever you're ready,” Niall says. “We’re all set here.”

Most of the interview is very standard softballs. Louis wants to lull Farage into complacency first.

He stands behind the cameras, mouthing along to the questions as Liam asks them, studying Farage’s face intently. A few times he starts slowly pacing around, to throw Farage off and distract him.

But Farage doesn’t squirm until Liam asks about the money Britain sends to the EU.

“You said on Question Time, you mentioned, you know, the big kicker is the money,” Liam says. “How much we send to the EU. And you said we should keep that here at home --”

“Of course, of course. Absolutely. Do you not agree?”

Liam smiles. “Don’t ask me, I’m a journalist.”

“Surely you’ve got an _opinion_ ,” Farage ribs him.

“But, you know, at the same time, the Leave campaign’s got that bus,” Liam says, dodging swiftly. “I mean, it’s everywhere. Three hundred fifty million pounds a week, let’s give it to the NHS instead. So is that a sure thing? That -- I mean, top down, are you all sort of in agreement, if we leave, that’s where that extra money goes?”

“Well,” Farage says, and coughs.

Louis makes a fist and cracks his knuckles, trying not to grin. Niall takes one earbud out and raises his eyebrows at Louis, mouthing, _Nice._

“The bus isn’t mine. I’m not with Vote Leave. You do know that.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t have any say on their adverts or what their consensus is.”

“But d’you agree with the advert?”

“I agree with the sentiment.”

“Giving it to the NHS?”

A bit of edge has crept into Liam’s voice, like he’s tired of not being able to pin down an answer. Louis, struck by a strange flight of fancy, wishes desperately that they could inhabit the same body at once, that they could combine their instinct and intellect. They’d be unstoppable if they could. He wishes that at the very least he could be in Liam’s ear right now, talking to him through IFB.

“To our doctors, yes,” Farage says. “Britain, keeping it in Britain.”

“Healthcare in Britain.”

“Yes.”

“And a portion for the NHS specifically?”

“The details are, you know, to be ironed out at a later date. And it still hinges on a hypothetical. But sure, yes.”

Louis strolls behind Farage’s chair and gives Liam the signal to move on before he can walk this statement back. Liam blinks at him through the haze of the klieg lights, gives him a tiny nod and obliges.

 

/

 

After they've returned to the station and ingested all the footage, Louis walks to his general practitioner’s office down the road and gets eight stitches put in his lip, as well as a little bottle of prescription painkillers that make him loopy. The doctor sternly tells him to have someone come pick him up.

He texts five different people asking who can get him, then sits in the waiting room rubbing at his numb lip and the ridge of stitches.

After about twenty minutes, he's dozing off in his chair when someone takes his shoulder and gently shakes him awake.

Liam’s face appears in his vision. Louis squints at him.

“Hey there cowboy,” Liam says, smiling. “Got your face fixed?”

Louis pulls his lip down to show him. “Eight stitches.”

“Sick,” he says, sounding impressed. “Want to go home?”

“No,” Louis says, reaching a hand out so Liam can pull him up. “I want to go back to the station…”

“You don't have to, Jade’s got your show under control. C’mon, let’s go home.”

“Liam,” Louis says petulantly, and Liam slips an arm over his shoulder and guides him to the door.

“I'm not going home,” Louis tells him as they walk out into the London dusk. The sun is setting, bleeding pink in the sky. “Let’s go do something fun.”

He doesn't want to be alone, really.

“That's fine,” Liam says, opening the passenger door and guiding Louis in. “Want to go to the pub?”

“I can't drink, Payno.”

“You can watch me drink.”

“Alright,” he agrees.

In the car, Louis gets a call; he answers without looking at his phone.

“Hullo?”

“Hey,” says Eleanor’s voice. “You alright?”

He’s stunned to hear her and takes a long, fumbling moment to respond.

“Um, yeah,” he says. “How did you -- did I text you?”

“Yeah, you asked if I could come pick you up from the doctor’s. I was in a meeting, sorry.”

“Oh, shit. I didn’t mean to. I was sort of out of it.”

“That’s alright.” She’s sort of out of breath; it sounds like she’s outdoors and walking somewhere. “What happened?”

“Uh, split my lip open, had to get a few stitches.”

“Football?”

“Basketball, actually.”

“So d’you need a ride, still?”

“No, no,” Louis says, and he runs his finger over his lip again. “I’m covered. Thanks, though.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll, um -- I’ll see you around.” It’s a nicety, because he probably won’t, but what else do you say?

“Yeah, see you around,” she says agreeably, and then they ring off.

Louis stares at his darkened phone in his lap. Liam glances at him, and then back at the road again.

“That was El,” Louis says. “Texted her by accident, earlier. Force of habit.”

“Ohh. Thought you sounded funny.”

Liam sounds cheerful and understanding, not jealous or concerned, like Louis sort of (insanely) wishes he would be.

“Yeah,” Louis says, rubbing at his jaw. “Haven’t talked to her in a minute.”

“Sounded pleasant to me.”

“It was. I mean, we didn't have a bad breakup. Not the second time, anyway.” Louis clears his throat.

“You've only ever really talked to me about Eleanor,” Liam says, and then hesitates. “Not Harry, so much.”

Louis is surprised. “I s’pose -- ah, I dunno.” He laughs. “I don't talk much to my hetero mates about my bloke issues.”

Calling Liam hetero out-and-out is a gamble. He might agree with that label, and then Louis will have to disguise his crushing disappointment.

But Liam lets out a breath and makes sort of an odd expression. He doesn't say anything, and then:

“You can talk to me about that stuff,” he murmurs. “You can talk to me about anything.”

Louis looks away from him, staring at the rubber seal on the bottom of the car window as the city rushes by, his heart hammering frantically.

Neither of them say anything, and then Louis gets a text.

“Hey,” he says in excitement. “Stan knows an illegal bookie we can talk to.”

“Perfect!” Liam exclaims. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Hey! Brilliant, thanks Stan.”

The earlier moment is broken. Louis turns Radio 1 on, half relieved, half disappointed.

 

/

 

They go to the pub near the station where Louis had run into Liam right after they met, the one he brought Sophia to. That feels like ages ago. Louis looks at Liam, marveling at how one-dimensional he once thought he was, how he seemed at the time like nothing more than a frustrating obstacle.

They're surrounded by good-looking women at the bar, and they do the _de rigeur_ male nudge and eyebrow lift, but Louis realizes with great relief that neither of them are remotely inclined to do anything about it.

“What's up?” Liam says, noticing his stare. He offers him his beer; Louis takes a little sip.

“Don't get all twisted and pass out,” Liam warns.

“Nah, birds love that. Love an unconscious bloke flopping onto their lap at the pub.”

Liam laughs.

“Productive day today, yeah?”

“Yeah, absolutely. I'm sort of wired from all that. I don't want to go home either.”

“I reckon Niall wanted to come over to mine and play FIFA later, if you want to join.”

“Perfect.”

“Smoke some weed…”

Liam laughs.

“I’ll smoke you out one of these days,” Louis threatens mildly.

“I swear I don't have anything against it. It just makes me sort of goofy… And I’m already sort of goofy...”

Louis is still doped up from the Tramadol, so he sees that someone is approaching Liam through the crowd, but he doesn’t twig that it’s Zayn until he’s upon them and tapping Liam on the shoulder.

He and Louis see each other at the same time. Zayn makes an apologetic face and drops his hand.

“Thought Liam was alone?” Louis teases.

“I did, actually,” Zayn admits. “Sorry. I can come back.”

“No, you know what?” Liam says, getting up. “I'll go fetch a beer for you, and why don't you two talk in the meantime?”

Louis and Zayn chorus in argument, but Liam does a very able impression of a deaf person as he backs away from them and disappears into the crowd.

Zayn turns to Louis and clears his throat.

“Sit,” Louis says.

“Alright,” Zayn says, and sits.

They stay silent for a few beats, each waiting for the other to speak, and then they try to talk at the same time.

“You go first,” Louis says, raising his voice over the increasing noise of the crowd. People are trickling more steadily into the pub, now; everyone must be getting off work.

“Alright. I just, like -- I want to clear up this Harry thing, the stupid con artist teacher story.”

Louis looks down at his water and drags his straw around, bumping it against the lemon slice.

“I didn't do anything wrong,” Zayn insists. “It was crazy to send Liam after me --”

“We didn't!”

“Fine, whatever, to phrase what ‘appened in a way so Liam felt the need to scold me over it --”

“Come off it, he didn't _scold_ you --”

“Whatever!”

“There's a _courtesy_ ,” Louis says, “to not -- when you know we've got an exclusive, to not jump on our exclusive!”

Zayn, eyes closed, presses his fingers to his eyelids. “Mate -- d’you think I go into meetings and show them Harry’s special report adverts and say, here's my story idea of the day? Everyone in town was aware of that story, it's just Harry had the lead from the Met. But a lead only gets you so far if you can't keep your exclusive! An’ it's not my fault the brother thought the BBC would handle it better!”

“How'd you even get the brother?”

“I know how to read fuckin’ census records, Louis.”

“But the thing was he wasn't on Facebook. He wasn't on social media at all. All the phone numbers and addresses for him online were out of date. Harry only got the info by pressin’ his cop friend.”

“We’ve got resources,” Zayn says evasively.

“That's it? You’ve got resources?”

“Louis, I'm not givin’ away _trade secrets_ to you in a pub! Jesus!” Zayn pauses. “You don't even _like_ me!”

He says this in such a hurt way that Louis is struck quiet.

“I wouldn't say that's true,” he says after a moment.

Zayn looks at him skittishly with round dark eyes, like a deer he’s wounded. “You can admit it.”

“I’ve been angry, yeah. But didn't I -- didn’t we have reason to be? Our station’s like a family, mate!”

“You _knew_ I wasn't happy, you knew I wanted to do other things --”

“I thought you wanted to like, go work at a fuckin’ newspaper! I didn't think it was ‘cos --” Louis lowers his voice, because he's being sort of loud, and a woman standing behind Zayn has turned to look at them askance. “Because you thought you were too good for us! That we were lame and shitty and that our reporting isn't clever or fancy enough for you!”

“I never said --”

“That we aren't even good enough to like, warrant an apology, or some notice, or for you to stay in touch after you left? That Pez isn't worthy more than a text message after three years together?”

_“I didn't know what to say!”_

_“You say things for a living!”_

More people are staring now. They get up and go outside, sheepish.

Zayn leans against the brick facade and lights a cigarette. “Perrie ain't one of your sisters,” he mutters. “You don't need to -- you all took that so personally.”

“People take sides, mate, when that shit happens.”

“Someone could’ve taken _my_ side!” Zayn explodes. “And someone could’ve said oh, what a great opportunity, wish you the best --”

“You didn't give us a chance! You sprang it on us and ran away and ignored everyone!”

“I didn't mean to leave right before Paris happened,” Zayn says, and blows out smoke. “I really -- I couldn't come _back_ , though. I mean -- I already took the job. I know I put you all in a bad position. I fuckin’ know.”

“You could’ve given us two weeks notice,” Louis says, chilly. “At the very least.”

“I could’ve done a lot of things,” Zayn says. “I didn't. It's on you to decide if you can let me off the hook for ‘em. Look, we don't need to be friends. But just bein’ friends with Liam, know you'll see me sometimes, like.”

“Well,” Louis says in a small voice, “I do miss you once in a while. We worked together for years, mate.”

“I know.” Zayn’s handsome face shadows with melancholy. “I miss you too.”

“Shit,” Louis says, and sighs.

“I’ve got me pride, and you've got yours,” Zayn says. “But I always thought we'd keep in touch.” He swallows. “You were one of me best mates, bruv.”

Louis looks away from him. “Yeah, you were one of mine.”

He suddenly longs to confess to him that he's got feelings for Liam, that he doesn't know what to do about it, wants to ask him, _Has Liam -- to your knowledge -- ever gone for blokes?_ But he can't.

Louis holds out his hand. Zayn studies him, and then twigs and hands him a cigarette.

“Ugh,” Louis mutters, lighting it. “Stop smokin’ menthols.”

“I like them.”

“Weirdo.”

There’s a beat, and then they laugh tentatively.

 

/

 

Once they've fetched Niall from his friend’s flat, they don’t go to Louis’ place. They take a football to the park instead, because it’s beautiful weather, and Louis practices juggling with his feet while Niall sits near him watching and Liam lies in the grass a short distance away, drunkenly butchering an Australian drinking song with occasional accompaniment from the two of them.

“Who were you on the phone with before?” Niall says to Louis.

Louis whiffs on the ball and it rolls away from him. “Shit,” he says. “Um, when?”

“When we were finishin’ up the interview, you ducked outside.”

“Ohh. Dan rang me.”

“Everythin’ okay?”

Louis nods. “All good. Just saying hi.”

Liam rolls over toward them. His back is covered in grass.

“When d’we talk to the illegal bookie?” he says, looking up at Louis.

Louis fetches the ball and brings it back, dropping it onto Liam’s pelvis. Liam groans. Niall laughs.

“Thanks for hitting me in the dick, but what’s the answer?”

“Dunno, I was thinking Saturday?” Louis says, picking up the ball again and bringing it over to Niall, dropping it onto his head and catching it when it bounces off his skull.

“Please someone stop this madman,” Niall says, wincing.

“After my shift?” Liam says. “No, Niall, you didn’t save me from him, so I won’t save you. How d’you like them apples? D’you eat apples?”

“Liam, lad, I’m wounded... You see how well I shot you today? I made you so handsome, and now you’re abandon’ me?”

Louis bounces the ball off Niall’s head again. Niall tackles him onto the ground and rubs his armpit in Louis’ face. Louis struggles desperately, then wriggles out from under him, giggling and giving him the finger.

“After your shift, yeah,” he calls to Liam.

“Good,” Liam says, and then comes over to them and collapses onto them, making a puppy pile of boys.

They roll apart after a moment and lie spread out in a pinwheel, looking up at the smoggy dark London sky. Louis digs around in his trousers for his smokes and finds a joint instead.

“Hey,” he cheers, holding it aloft. “Anyone got a light?”

“That’s your department, boyo,” Niall says, and yawns.

“Oh, I’ve actually got one,” Liam says, producing it from his shirt pocket. “I nicked it off Zayn, oops.”

Louis laughs. “Yeah, that’s right -- Niall, I actually talked to Zayn tonight.”

“Seriously?” Niall says, shifting around. “Fuck, I need a chiropractor after today. No more handlin’ two cameras by meself.”

“Mhm,” Louis says, and sits up. “Roll over, I’ll rub you.”

Niall rolls onto his stomach and Louis perches atop his arse, digging his fingers into Niall’s muscles, which are ropey and drum-tight from years of carrying gear around.

Liam sits up onto his side, observing them. Louis hands him the joint, and he lights it and takes a drag.

“What if the bobbies come by?” he says, coughing.

“Then they’ll think me and Niall are fucking outdoors, and while we’ve got them distracted arresting us for public indecency, you can ditch the j,” Louis says.

Niall moans theatrically.

“There you go, mate.”

“No, that was real,” Niall mutters. “Me back’s a mess.”

“Poor Nialler,” Louis says, pouting and rubbing him with harder, more drawn out motions.

“That’s good…”

Liam sits up fully, pulling his knees to his chest. He hands the joint to Louis, who takes a long drag and pushes it into Niall’s inert mouth. Niall groans in protest and takes a little puff.

“It’ll help your pain,” Louis chirps.

“Right, you old drug pusher. What’d you talk to Zayn about?”

“Y’know, we just caught up,” Louis says evasively, and taps Niall on the shoulder. “Get your shirt off.”

Niall obliges, tossing it at Liam, who laughs and winks at him. Louis leans across Niall and digs an elbow into the weathered skin of his muscular, freckled back.

“Oh, motherfuck!”

“Stop?”

“No, keep goin’, lad.”

“Niall likes it rough,” Liam says, taking another hit off the joint.

Louis giggles. “You want it harder, love?”

“Harder,” Niall groans blissfully. “Fuck me t’ death wit’ those little fingers.”

“Love it when you talk dirty to me,” Louis purrs, and then accidentally makes eye contact with Liam, who’s studying him with curious dark eyes.

They both immediately look away. Louis clears his throat.

“Zayn sort of apologized,” he mutters. “Half-apologized.” He pauses. “I might’ve been too hard on him over that Harry story.”

“Isn’t like that made it back to him,” Niall says, his voice strained by Louis’ continued massaging.

“Actually,” Liam says, with a nervous laugh. “It might’ve, a little bit.”

“Payno blew my spot,” Louis says. A little annoyance creeps into his voice without him meaning for it to. “Anyway, I dunno. We admitted we miss each other.”

Niall whistles. “Shit. Thought we'd see Ireland reunited sooner than you two.”

“Fuck off. But right, y’know, ‘s been like seven months now. Worth moving on from.”

“I think,” Liam says, “and this is just me, but that thing he said right before he left the pub, about like -- never having any time to read anymore... I mean, Zayn loves to read.”

“Right.”

“I don’t think the BBC is good for him.” Liam looks pensive. “Y’know? I think --”

“Yeah, I did say to him I always thought if he did leave ITV, he’d go and work at a paper, like. Sorry, I interrupted you --”

Liam shrugs. “That’s just what I was about to say. Maybe he’d be happier at a paper.”

“You could say that to him,” Niall points out.

“He’d just take it as lip service coming from me.”

“And he’d take it as judgmental coming from me,” Louis says. He stills his hands and lies them flat on Niall’s back. “Ah, fuck, doesn’t matter anyway… ‘e can make his own mistakes…”

“Tommo,” Niall says, reaching behind himself to pat him on the thigh. Louis rolls off him and plucks the joint from Liam’s fingers, killing it and tossing the burnt end bit into the grass. “Did you want to go to that Stormzy concert or nah?”

“Shit, when’s it again?”

“Manchester, June ten or somethin’. Liam, d’you want to go?”

“Sure, but I dunno if I’ve heard any Stormzy.”

“He does that too big for your boots song.”

Liam gets on his thinking face, which Louis finds very cute. He sometimes lets himself think about just walking up and kissing him while he’s busy thinking. “Um… Oh! Oh, yeah, I know who you mean.”

“Wanna go?”

“Definitely.”

“It’s a date,” Niall says happily, rolling onto his back and looking up at the moon.

Louis stands and goes over to Liam, bending over him with his hand out. Liam looks up at him in confusion. His hair is attractively mussed. Louis lets the silent go for a moment as they look at each other in the dark, then: “Can I have the light? I wanna smoke.”

“Oh, yeah,” Liam says, and puts it in his hand.

Louis settles down on the grass next to him and rests his head on Liam’s thigh, his heart pounding with nerves. Liam hesitates for a moment and then starts playing with his hair.

There’s the crackle of the lighter and the inhale of the first drag. Niall has busied himself looking at his phone.

“June eleven,” he says.

“Huh, lad?”

“Stormzy concert, it’s on June eleven. Saturday.”

“Perfect, I'll have Saturdays off by then,” Liam says cheerily, his fingers moving gently over Louis’ scalp. Powerful tingles shoot up Louis’ spine. He almost can’t sit still because of them, but he wills himself to, and closes his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

Louis wakes to a text from Harry on Saturday.

_Cheryl renegotiated her contract. None of us tested well enough with her so Simon is giving her the show all to herself. She'll present alone from now on_

_You're joking_ , Louis texts back, sitting up in bed. _After all that ?_

_No, I wish. Simon said if anyone would have gotten it it would have been me. Very comforting right_

_That's such shit.  They just want to save money_

_Don't worry about it Lou xx didn't think I'd get it and it wasn't part of my 5 year plan anyway_

Louis tries for a while to draft a response to him, but ends up sighing and setting his phone aside. He wonders how much Liam’s getting paid; he knows Walsh was raking in a takehome well into the six figures. Maybe this is more about money than he'd originally thought.

Louis doesn't wait very long to find out. He picks Liam up outside the studio, and as Liam’s climbing into the car, he says, “How much are you about to be making?”

Liam turns the radio on and puts a piece of gum in his mouth, then offers another to him.

Louis takes it, watching Liam as he chews. He's got shades on, so his expression is hard to read.

“What makes you ask?” he finally responds.

“Curiosity.”

“Sort of an impolite question, Tommo,” Liam says, flashing his teeth in a smile.

“I know you make more than I do now, so relax. I just want to know. It's purely academic.”

“Alright then,” he says in his agreeable way. “Eighty thou a year.”

“That rat bastard,” Louis says as he pulls onto the side street, shaking his head.

Liam glances over at him. “Who?”

“Simon! That fucker.”

“Sometimes I feel like you're ten steps ahead of me, conversationally,” Liam says.

“Just shadowboxing.”

“Huh?”

“D’you know how much Louis makes?”

Liam smiles. “Are you using the royal Louis, or do you mean Walsh?”

“Walsh. A hundred and twenty thou!”

Liam’s brow furrows. “That didn't get mentioned in my contract negotiation.”

“Wouldn't have, would it?” Louis says. He glances in his rear view and wonders briefly if he should really be taking his own car to go talk to an illegal bookie, but it's too late now. “Bastards.”

“Well, it’s sort of fair, right? He's got thirty years experience on me.”

“Is it, Payno? You're going to be doing the same job but making a third less? Seems like shit to me.”

“What I mean is, he's had a long time to collect bonuses and raises, and I haven't. He's proven loyalty and value and all that, and I haven't.”

Louis shakes his head and flips his turn signal on. “The same job.”

“It doesn't bother me. Really, it doesn't. Eighty is crazy to me. I'm used to fifty. I'm balling, right now. Got more money than I know what to do with.”

Louis laughs. “Yeah? Can you buy me something, then? A token of your affection?”

“‘Course, what d’you want?”

“A little monkey like Justin Bieber had, the one Germany took off him.”

Liam very seriously taps his temple and points at Louis. “I'm on it.”

“Oh, get on it, lad.”

“One monkey coming right up.”

“It was a Capuchin, I think.”

“Noted.”

“Took you a minute to leave out of there,” Louis says. “Did Andy keep you?”

“Noo, we had this bloke on earlier doing magic tricks, and I ran into him in the hall,” Liam says, smiling. “And I asked if he could do that thing where he gets a coin from behind my ear. And he did! Right on the spot.”

“Payno,” Louis says, grinning, “that's the easiest magic trick there is.”

“But he showed me his hand, and it wasn't in there before. _And_ I got to keep the coin, so.”

“Well, put it toward my monkey.”

Liam laughs.

 

/

 

The bookie, Alan, who Stan had described to Louis as “a big, nasty old Welsh prick with a face tat, but nice once you get to know him”, isn't in yet when they get there. Louis rattles the knob of the blank door (no number, no placard, nothing, just a door at the top of a few stairs facing out toward a narrow, sloping cobblestone street) and returns to the car in defeat.

Liam observes him. “So we’re in stakeout mode, then.”

“Seems like it,” Louis says, reclining his seat back and glancing over at Liam.

They spend an hour talking about nothing, the conversation flowing easily between them. The only time it stalls is when Louis (stupidly, desperately, manipulatively) says, “You pulled any since Sophia?” and Liam’s face goes blank.

“Nah,” he finally says.

“Yeah?”

“You’d know if I had, mate.”

Louis puts his hand out. “You got any more gum? And what’s that mean? I’d feel a disturbance in the force, like?”

Liam palms him another piece. “No, dummy, means I’d tell you.”

Louis looks out the windscreen. A bloke’s walking up the road toward their car. No face tat. Can’t be Alan.

“You tell me everything?”

“Most things,” Liam says.

“Huh.”

“What, you don’t tell me most things?”

Louis shakes his head. “S’pose I do, actually.”

He wonders what the gap between _most_ and _everything_ is, for Liam. He knows what it is for himself.

 

/

 

Alan isn’t happy to see them.

“I told that punk Stan I don’t want to talk to no TV station,” he grumbles as he lets them into his shop, flipping on lights. He walks with a cane and a stiff limp. Stan had intimated that Alan had been in the FWA, but Louis thinks he’s full of shit. This bloke doesn’t look any older than sixty. A hard-lived sixty, but sixty.

“We don’t need to get you on tape, or anything,” Liam says, putting a gentle hand on Louis’ lower back as he sidles up beside him. Louis flinches internally. He’s growing to dread every tender touch of Liam’s, but hangs on them all the same, buries them in his memory like a dog burying bones. Late at night he strokes his cock to them while he scrolls through Liam’s Facebook.

The fantasies about Liam fucking or blowing him have grown more intermittent. Often now he jerks off thinking about them kissing, thinking about Liam touching him sweetly, holding him. Kissing his forehead, stroking his face.

It makes him want to knock a hole in a wall, it’s so pathetic, but he can’t stop.

“Right,” Louis says. “We just want to confirm with you. I know you couldn’t do it over the phone.”

Alan leads them into his back office. There’s nothing on the walls, and the shades are drawn tight. He gestures for them to sit, then perches on a chair behind his large mahogany desk and pops some reading glasses on.

“Friend of mine had MI6 sniffing around,” he says. “Asking questions.”

Liam and Louis look at each other.

“Did he,” Louis says.

“Uh-huh,” Alan says, looking over his glasses at them.

“If we could get you --”

Liam cuts Louis off. Not verbally, but by laying a hand for half a second on his thigh and applying the tiniest bit of pressure with his pointer finger. Louis surprises himself with how fast he shuts up.

“Just the basics for now,” Liam says. “We’d really appreciate it. We’re just working off a hunch. We want to know if there’s anything to this story or not. If not, that’s alright.”

“You want to know what odds I’m giving on Brexit.”

“Right.

“Today,” Alan says, and he flips his books open. “Let’s say you two want to place a bet.”

“Sure,” Liam says, nodding.

“Evens.”

Louis blinks at him. “Even odds. One to one.”

“Uh-huh.”

He inhales and looks at Liam.

“Has that changed, at all?” Liam says, studying Alan.

“Uh-huh,” Alan says, and nothing else.

“Which direction?”

“Odds for Remain went down. Odds for Leave went up.”

“But the big betting exchanges, they’re at, like --” Louis shakes his head. “Christ. Three to two, Remain.”

“More’n that,” Alan says. “Seventy-thirty.”

“Who’s wrong, you or them?”

“I can’t say,” Alan says. “All I can tell you is the odds I give.” He pauses. “Been at this forty years. I wouldn’t give ‘em if I didn’t think they’d pay out fair.”

“When did the odds start to really change?” Liam says.

Alan grunts and rubs at his eyes under his glasses. “‘Round a month ago.”

Squinting in the dim light, Louis looks over at Liam, who appears nonplussed.

“Can we get a number for you?” Louis says. “Just in case.”

“Christ,” Alan mutters, slamming the book shut. “Alright. Only ‘cos Stan warned me if I didn’t cooperate with you, you’d come bang my door down.”

They all get to their feet. Alan starts writing on a scrap of paper.

“How long’s Stan known you?” Liam says to Louis.

“‘Bout fifteen years, now.”

Liam studies him.

“What?”

“Just thinking about what you were like fifteen years ago.”

“A little shit,” Louis says. Alan hands him the paper with his number on it and begins to usher them out, ignoring Louis’ thank yous.

“I bet you weren’t,” Liam says. “Bet you were sweet.”

They’re quiet until they get out the door; Liam thanks Alan one final time, and he grunts as he closes it behind them.

“Sweet?” Louis laughs. “I dunno.”

“You’d have been one of the good ones,” Liam says, looking into his eyes. “I’ve got a feeling.”

“Maybe,” Louis says, gazing back at him. “I don't think you'd’ve liked me, though. I was a clown.”

“I would’ve been a little wary of you,” Liam says. “Y’know?”

“No, I don’t know. What’s so scary about me?”

“Oh, Louis.”

“No, tell me.”

“I dunno... I would’ve wanted you to like me.”

“And I would’ve,” Louis promises.

They haven’t even moved off of Alan’s step, yet.

“I dunno, clown boy,” Liam says with a slight smile. “People always thought I was too serious.”

“I still would’ve,” Louis says. “I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks. You know that.”

Liam’s smile widens. “I do know that.”

“Anyway, I don't know what you're on about. Everyone loves you, Payno,” Louis pulls him into a headlock and starts moving them toward the car. “Shut up.”

“Alright, alright,” Liam says, laughing and pulling out of his grip.

They pile in the car together, and Liam hesitates, then turns to him.

“So, Brexit happening,” he says. “That wouldn't be, like, the end of the world, right?”

Louis stares at him.

“No, I'm serious! Like -- if it really might happen, maybe we should accept that and, I dunno, focus on the good points?”

“Good points? Liam!”

“Well,” Liam says, looking rather helpless.

“I don't accept it,” Louis says. “We’re going to ramp up our coverage and make sure people are educated about the choice they're making. ‘Cos we know they're getting nothing but Leave propaganda from the newspaper columns.”

“It isn't like we really can change anything, though, right? I mean -- we're just telling people what color the sky is.”

“Look,” Louis says, softening. “D’you really think none of the work you've done for us has helped or educated people? You absolutely can change things. You have helped change things, bit by bit, we all do.”

“It's Harry who changes things, he's your like, crack investigator.”

“We all play a role. Harry can't put on a whole newscast himself. And what you did with Farage? It'll make people think, lad. It'll make them sit up and maybe do some research.”

“But then Brexit’ll happen anyway, apparently,” Liam says, running his hand through his hair.

“You do all you can,” Louis says. “And maybe it isn't enough, but you've got to try.”

“It's just sort of depressing,” Liam says, and laughs. “Sports was never this depressing. The worst it got was when Liverpool brought this kid who was dying out to the pitch, and let him be part of the team for a day. And I covered it, and hung out with him. Sweetest kid in the world. I went home and cried and cried and I said to myself, I can't ever do news. It'd be too hard. But here I am.”

“You're here, and you're on team Tommo now.” Louis starts the car. “And we don't give up ‘til the bitter end, alright?”

Liam doesn't respond, so Louis socks him in the shoulder. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Liam says, and gives him a smile.

 

/

 

On Monday before the six, Liam walks by, all coiffed and handsome in his suit. He tosses something over Ed’s head to Louis.

Louis, distracted by finishing up the show, barely reacts in time to catch it. It’s a wee stuffed monkey.

Liam winks and takes a seat at the computer next to him. “Are the scripts in?”

“Yeah, they’re all in.” Louis shakes his fringe off his forehead and looks over at him. “You actually got me a monkey?”

Liam squeezes his shoulder. “Not a real one, you might’ve noticed.”

Louis laughs. “Still...”

“Hey, you said monkey,” Liam says, and busies himself with logging in and pulling up the rundown.

Louis looks at the monkey. It’s a Capuchin, even.

“Thanks, mate,” he says, his voice soft.

“Anytime.”

He sets it on top of his monitor, clears his throat and gets back to work.

“Hey,” he says. “Read fast tonight? Show’s a bit heavy.”

“I noticed, I’d already planned on it.”

“Cheers.”

 

/

 

The Farage interview airs Tuesday night as a special after the regular six o’clock. Liam’s parents call, gushing over how professional he sounded, and then his sisters, and Zayn texts him _good shit bro!!!_

Even his friend Tony from Four rings him up. “My man’s a real news presenter and shit, now,” he crows. “Just remember I knew you when.”

When he rings off with Tony, his phone buzzes again, this time with an unfamiliar number. Liam hesitates.

“Hi there,” a male voice says. “Liam Payne?”

“This is he,” Liam says.

“Hi, this is Ralph Sutherland, deputy news director at BBC London. How are you?”

“I'm well, yourself?”

“Good, good. So we've just seen the Farage special -- really great stuff.”

“Oh, thank you! Thanks, that's really…” Liam trails off. Why is the BBC calling the competition to compliment them?

“You're quite welcome,” Ralph says. “So -- listen, Mr. Payne.”

“Call me Liam.”

“Cheers. Liam. I'd like to have breakfast with you. Can we arrange that?”

Liam goes silent. He wanders through his flat, flipping on some lights so it doesn't feel as lonely.

“If you can't talk right now, I can call back.” Ralph says this in hushed tones that make it rather obvious this call isn't exactly kosher.

“No, no. Go on. Breakfast about what?”

“Well, I’d just like to meet you and talk.”

Liam wishes Louis were here. He'd know how to handle this. Louis doesn't worry about being so diplomatic all the time.

“Alright,” he says, somewhat uneasily. “That sounds fine.”

“Excellent! Does tomorrow work?”

“Sure.”

They hammer out the details and Liam hangs up, feeling dirty.

 

/

 

Louis and Niall go get coffee together before work and argue all the way to the shop -- the inciting incident being that as they left to walk to Starbucks, Ellie was going into the studio, and she and Niall awkwardly ignored each other.

“Neither of us even _want_ a relationship, right now,” Niall whispers to him as they stand in line.

“Nialler, you're gettin’ too old for that shit.”

“Too old? I'm twenty-six, amn’t I?”

“Twenty-seven this fall.”

“You're twenty-nine this winter, you don't look too married to me.”

Louis elbows him. “Rude.”

“Which part?”

“The reminding me I'm almost thirty part. And I’ve gotten serious,” Louis adds. “Twice.”

“You were going to marry Harry?”

“I mean, no, obviously, but before it went south, I dunno -- maybe.”

“Loads of journalists aren't the settlin’ down type.”

“No? Lily’s married. Paul’s married. Julian’s married. Leigh Anne just got married --”

“It's an even split,” Niall says, flapping his hand. “Weirdos like you all on one end.”

“Mate, I just want to see you happy, is all.”

“I am happy! Look, sometime in t’ next few years I'll meet some nice girl in a pub back home an’ we’ll get married two months later. That's how it’ll get me. Sneaky, like.”

“I think Ellie really likes you,” Louis says quietly, observing him.

Niall shrugs and runs a hand through his sandy hair. “I like her too. We’re good friends.”

“Always so politic, Niall. Yeah, you're good friends who keep accidentally sleeping together, you are.”

“Shh!” Niall says wildly, like anyone in this Starbucks knows what they’re talking about.

“Life’s too short,” Louis says. “To not -- you know.”

The line moves up.

“Take your own advice,” Niall mutters.

“Huh?”

“Nothin’.”

They don't say any more about it. By the time they get their coffee, it's forgotten; they're back on the topic of football.

 

/

 

“Liam,” Ralph calls as soon as he walks into the cafe, waving him over.

Liam weaves between the tables. Ralph is a small bloke, twinkly-eyed with a certain canniness to him. He reminds Liam of Louis in about twenty-five years.

They introduce themselves and get settled in; Ralph tells Liam, “Order anything, I'll pick up the tab,” to which an anxious Liam demurs and orders a cup of tea that he plans on paying for himself.

It's obnoxiously bright out today. The sun beats at them hard through the wide windows. Liam realizes with a jolt that it's the first day of June -- he takes over for Walsh in nine days.

“Liam,” Ralph says once the waitress is gone, and laces his fingers. “You did sports before ITV, correct?”

“Right.”

There's a lot of chatter around them; it's hard to hear. Maybe that's why Ralph picked this place. Or maybe that's just Liam being paranoid.

“You know,” Ralph says, and laughs. “It's silly I even asked. I spent last night looking over your reel.”

Liam smiles sheepishly. “I ought to take one that down. It's outdated.”

“Yeah, you've been doing the Monday six o’clock since March, haven't you?”

Liam blinks. It doesn't feel that long -- then again, it feels like he's known Louis forever. His sense of time is screwy lately.

“I have.”

“Well, we’re impressed with your work.”

Their tea is delivered. Liam slowly stirs his, staring into the dregs.

“Mr Sutherland --”

“Ralph.”

“Ralph. I'm -- maybe not whatever you think I am,” Liam says. 

Ralph gazes at him warmly. “We happen to think you're very talented.”

Liam nods. “So…”

“So. Are you happy at ITV?”

“Yes, very.”

Ralph shifts in his chair. “Yeah? Under the all-seeing eye of Simon Cowell?”

Liam opens his mouth and shuts it again. “I’m happy at ITV,” he says, and that’s all he says.

Ralph sips his tea. “Do you like to travel, Liam?”

“Yeah…”

“Do you want to see the world?”

“Sure.”

“We promote up from the London bureau all the time. If you reported for us,” Ralph says, “you could go anywhere in the world. Paris, Dubai, the States. Nepal, Amsterdam, the Ivory Coast.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, beaming at Liam. Liam’s mouth has gone dry.

“So that’s the offer, then,” he says. “That’s why you’re meeting me. You do know I just signed a contract.”

“Contracts break all the time. Ask your friend Zayn.”

Liam lets out a breathy laugh.

“I’m serious.”

He looks out the window. People are passing by, cheerful, carrying bags from the shops down the street.

“You haven’t officially taken over, yet,” Ralph says, in a gentle voice. Liam meets his eyes. “You’re not letting down any viewers. You’re not breaking any continuity.”

“Just like that, you’d make me a reporter.”

“Well, there’d be an interview process.”

“I’m not interested,” Liam tells him. Ralph squints. “I’m flattered, really, I appreciate it, I appreciate you taking the time out of your morning, but I’m -- no thank you.”

“If you’re attached to being behind the desk, which I’d understand, you’d make it back there eventually.”

“That isn’t it,” Liam says. His palms prickle with sweat. Ralph tilts his head, now. “I dunno how to explain to you I’m happy.”

Ralph nods, his light eyes twinkling. “Well, what’s keeping you happy?”

Louis, he thinks, sort of insanely, and then blinks.

“The -- I really like the team I work with,” he says lamely.

“We do have some good people at the BBC,” Ralph says, and winks at him.

They’re interrupted when the waitress comes over to refill their tea.

“I know, I can imagine. But you get it, don’t you?” Liam hesitates. “I dunno. I’m -- I’ve just started there. It’s a lot.”

He has, of course, thought a lot about the opportunities he’ll have in the future to move up. But thinking about leaving now makes Liam anxious and itchy and unhappy. And he keeps flashing on Louis, which he doesn’t want to do, because he’s all mixed up inside lately about Louis and keeps thinking about touching him.

They had a hug Monday night after the show, because it had gone particularly well and Louis was very pleased with him. He’d nuzzled his face against Liam’s neck and whispered, “Nice work, Payno,” and Liam doesn’t know how to tell Ralph that unless the BBC can somehow replicate for him the floating feeling he gets when Louis says _Nice work, Payno_ , poaching him is going to be very difficult.

“Well,” Ralph says, and digs in his pocket. “If you change your mind… here’s my card. Please, give me a ring whenever. Even if you’ve just got more questions about Aunt Beeb. No pressure.”

Liam takes it. You never know, he supposes. “Thanks.”

Ralph starts to speak, and then hesitates. Liam watches him.

“Do you happen to know,” he finally says, “if Harry Styles is happy?”

Liam shrugs, “You’d have to ask him. I think he is, for now.”

“What about that little bulldog EP of theirs? Tomlinson?”

Surprised, Liam immediately nods. “He’s happy where he is, definitely.”

“Ahh,” Ralph says, sounding disappointed. “Well. Too bad.”

Liam doesn’t know what to say to this. And he’s so discombobulated that Ralph sneakily manages to pay for his tea.


	15. Chapter 15

Paul corrals Louis as soon as he gets in the door.

“Two things,” he says. “First off, Simon is having some of the big cats from Entertainment tour the newsroom next week, and he wants to show you off specifically, ‘cos of the ratings spike. So he’s asked me to request of you -- no weed socks, be clean-shaven, don’t be making any sort of loud dick jokes or anything when they come by.”

Louis laughs. “I’ll do my best.”

“All we can ask. Second thing, then, is that Simon wants to see you in his office now.”

Louis squints up at him. “Couldn’t he have just told me that first bit himself, then?”

“I got the impression he wanted to truncate this meeting as much as possible.”

“What, is he giving me bad news?”

Paul sighs. “No, but you might have a strop, so fair warning.”

Louis grows anxious. “What’s he going to say?”

“He’ll tell you, Louis. Just go up at ten.”

“I don’t like bad things bein’ sprung on me.”

“It’s not bad, I promise. You’ll find out at ten.”

So Louis worries himself into a tizzy for the next hour and does his best not to take his nervous energy out on everyone around him. He does anyway; in the end he ends up distracting Ed so much that Ed drags his rolly desk chair (with him in it) out into the studio.

“Please entertain Louis,” he calls jokingly to Mel B, who's just wrapped up the morning show. She laughs.

/

 

 

Louis bolts upstairs at nine fifty sharp. Sadie makes him wait, until Simon finally calls through the doors, “You can let him in, now,” and Louis bursts into his office and takes a seat in front of his desk.

“Hello there,” Simon says, distracted as he finishes something up on his laptop. He’s eerily backlit by the big window behind him. Louis looks out at the Thames as he waits, leg bouncing, for Simon to begin.

“So,” he finally says. “Louis. Good morning. How are you?”

“What’s this bad news you’ve got for me?”

Simon snorts and laces his fingers. “Good morning, Simon! I’m well, yourself?”

“Good morning, Simon, what’s this bad news you’ve got for me?”

He puts his feet up on Simon’s desk. Simon knocks them off.

“You’re going to get defensive,” Simon says, “and I know I can’t head that off, but it would be wonderful if you could, you know, digest what I’m about to say and think about it before you respond.”

“Oh, fuck,” Louis says, his heart sinking. “Christ. Just hit me with it.”

Simon tongues at the inside of his cheek, then says, “I’d like you to reassure me that Liam is a good fit for your show.”

Louis squints at him. “Sorry?”

“I’m a little concerned about the numbers.”

“Simon, what the hell are you talking about?”

Simon hands him a binder full of ratings. Louis pages through them, shaking his head. He’s seen all these already.

“We’re getting a bump from him,” Louis says. “He’s getting good ratings. Our Farage piece got, like, great ones, actually. I don’t get what you’re on about.”

“Of course we’re seeing a temporary boost on Mondays,” Simon says. “He’s a new face, people are curious. But because he hasn’t got the loyalty, once they’re used to him, if he can’t grab them, they’ll stop tuning in. It isn't as big a spike as I wanted. And my biggest concern is we aren’t getting nearly the millennial boost I expected.”

“Your expectations on that were too high,” Louis counters. He’d discussed this exact thing with Nick just last week. His heart is getting a little fast, and he can feel his temper rising.

“Alright, so you disagree with me?”

“One hundred fuckin’ percent I do!”

Simon puts his hands up. “Don’t swear at me. Good Lord. Can I maintain some semblance of authority in my own office? You probably feel like I’m talking out of school --”

“You are!” Louis exclaims. “He ‘asn’t even actually taken over yet!”

“I know, it's a sticky wicket.”

“A _sticky wicket_? You picked him, so give him a chance to deliver! Not exactly a hard one, that.”

“You think he can inspire loyalty in your viewers?”

“Yes!”

“Alright. You know I give you quite a lot of leeway with this show.”

“Simon,” Louis says, leaning forward. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make Liam a success in this role. You’ve got me word on that.”

Simon studies him and then snorts. “You realize,” he says, “this is a total one-eighty from our meeting in February.”

Louis nods. “So take that as a testament to Liam’s ability to inspire loyalty, mate.”

“ _Sir_ ,” Simon corrects him.

“Sir, yeah yeah.”

“Just do me a favor and keep this in mind. I know you like Liam, and you’re prone to defend him, but just -- try not to let that cloud your judgment. If it isn't working, _tell_ me.”

Simon pulls a pack of cigarettes from his desk and lights one, which is usually Louis’ cue to leave.

Louis gnaws at his lip. “Fine.”

 

/

 

Liam takes his time getting back to the station. He thinks, maybe, that he can lie to Louis -- probably better to tell a little white lie.

But when he goes to the edit bay to look at an animal adoption spot he shot with Cheryl yesterday, Louis is the only other person there, and when he sweetly chirps, “Hey, Payno, where’ve you been all morning?” Liam knows he’s done for.

“Uh,” Liam says, and wipes his sweaty palms on his neatly pressed trousers. “I had a meeting...”

Louis comes over to him and settles backwards in a computer chair, leaning his arms on the backrest and his chin on his arms. “Yeah? Who with?”

Liam straightens up and looks at him sort of pitifully. “The BBC.”

Louis’ eyes flash and his jaw tightens.

“‘Scuse me?”

“The deputy news director just wanted to sit down with me --” Louis is looking angrier the longer he talks, so Liam talks faster. “-- and discuss, I dunno, opportunities --”

Louis laughs, unpleasantly. “You’re joking.”

“Hang on --”

“Opportunities?”

“Louis --”

“So was this all just --” Louis gets up from his chair. He trips on one of its legs and straightens up, flushing.

“Let me explain --”

“I stick me neck out for you, makin’ you an’ me equal partners, giving you a say in the newscast like I’ve never done for a presenter, trainin’ you, buildin’ you up, all so you can start taking breakfast meetings about opportunities?”

“Can I _talk_ \--”

“All your shit about poor Zayn, oh Louis, please forgive him -- what, you wanted to curry favor with ‘im so ‘e’d leave the same door open for you that ‘e walked out of? Were you, like, planning this?”

“Hey!” Liam exclaims, his heart pounding in his chest. “That isn’t it at all! Can I explain what happened?”

“D’you know I just had a sit-down with Simon where I completely put me bollocks on the line for you?”

“What?” Liam says, baffled. “How would I know that? Why’d you have to put -- what’s going on?”

“I’ve got to get ready for the morning meeting,” Louis snaps.

“Louis! You’re acting crazy! I’m not _going_ anywhere!”

Louis is already on his way out, not listening to him. The door shuts behind him. Liam stares at it in angry bafflement, then goes to follow him. Niall pops out of the control room and stops him with a hand to the chest.

“Sorry, didn't mean to eavesdrop,” he says, “but let him cool down.”

Liam tries to get around him, but Niall is surprisingly nimble.

“I just want to explain --”

“I know, I know, lad, but let him cool down first.”

“How’d he even get hot that fast? I barely talked!”

Niall guides him into the break room and starts making him a cup of tea. “Drink,” he says, “and then go after him when you finish. That’s about t’ right amount of time.”

Liam presses his hand to his forehead. “Fuck,” he says. “When I tell him, he’ll get it, I just -- shit.”

Niall hands him the tea.

“You hit a sore spot, is all,” he says gently.

Liam sips the tea. “I feel like a prick.”

“Eh, don’t,” Niall says. “It was innocent, right? You get a call, hey, let’s have a meetin’, you go in, very polite-like, you want to keep the door open just in case, but you’ve got no real intention of leavin’...”

“Right… exactly.”

Niall shrugs. “It happens. Louis thinks everyone’s like him and’s willing to go about that shit like it doesn’t matter, like the hierarchy doesn’t exist, like nobody can hurt him. I mean, it’s great that he’s like that, don’t get me wrong. I’ve always admired him for it. But people like you and me, we’re a bit more political.”

Liam nods. “I’m not leaving,” he says intently.

Niall gives him a smile. “I know you aren’t.”

Liam sighs.

“And maybe there’s a little extra tension between you two, ‘cos…” Niall doesn’t finish his thought.

Liam studies him in confusion. “‘Cos of, like… work stress?”

Niall takes his tea from him and has a sip. “Sure, Payno,” he says brightly. “Work stress. Right.”

Liam’s brows knit. Niall claps him on the shoulder and leaves him to his thoughts.

 

/

 

He doesn’t get to explain himself after he finishes the tea. Paul bumps up the morning meeting, so they’re both ushered into the conference room; Liam tries to talk to him in the doorway, but Louis brushes him off.

They end up sitting across the table from each other. Liam keeps guiltily trying to make eye contact with him, while Louis clicks a pen and refuses to look at him.

“What’ve we got today?” Paul says once everyone’s gathered.

Louis gestures to Harry, who’s sitting next to him. “Harry and Pez are on this crowdfunding for the kid with cancer story. Lily and Niall are already off to cover a domestic in Edinburgh. I’ve got Leigh Anne and Ben on a political roundup for the five, and they’re shooting a vosot for my show.”

“Alright, all sounds like good stuff,” Paul says.

_Click click._

Paul clears his throat and takes the pen from Louis. Harry smiles fondly at this, which makes a nasty jealous feeling sting in Liam's chest.

“Can we have Liam front something?” Paul says. “Since we’ve got him as a floater?”

Louis looks up at Liam with a decidedly neutral expression. Liam mouths, _Let me explain._

“Nothin’ springs to mind,” Louis mutters. “Does Liam have any ideas?”

Liam shakes his head. He’s been too preoccupied this morning.

“Alright, well, if you think of anything you need picked up, Louis,” Paul says.

“Uh-huh.”

Paul turns to Harry. “So tell me more about this crowdfunding story?”

 

/

 

Once Louis is settled at his desk, Liam hovers behind him for about a minute and then taps him on the shoulder.

Louis gets to his feet and turns Liam around, guiding him with a hand at his lower back. “Let’s go in the control room,” he says.

They hole away in there, shutting the doors. Louis turns to him in the dark and folds his arms.

“So, I reckon I overreacted,” he says, giving Liam a little smile. “Sorry.”

“You did, mate,” Liam says, aching in relief. “Can I explain now?”

“Aye, go on.”

Liam gives him a streamlined recap of the phone call and the breakfast. Louis perches on a desk, looking off into middle distance with an expression of deep thought.

“I completely blew him off, really,” Liam says. “And, like -- it’s the BBC! But I’m happy, I told him I’m happy and I meant it.”

“Good, I’m glad,” Louis says. “I wouldn’t want you to stay if you weren’t.”

“I am!”

“Out of obligation or anything.”

This sounds sort of mad to Liam, who really enjoys doing things out of obligation, but he shakes his head.

“And I’m not Zayn,” he says. “That really -- that wasn’t fair. None of what you said was fair.”

“You’re right, and I’m sorry,” Louis says in a small voice, and looks up at him. “I mean it, I am.”

All of Liam’s annoyance evaporates. He nods. “Alright. I'm sorry for, you know, scaring you.” He pauses, and then with some hesitation, adds, “I didn't realize you liked having me around that much.”

“Oh, Liam,” Louis says, his voice soft and raspy. “Yeah.”

“Well, I like being around. So.”

They look at each other. Liam bites his lip, then comes over to Louis and wraps an arm around his shoulders, bringing his head to his chest.

Louis slips an arm around his waist and hangs onto him.

“What did you mean when you said you put your bollocks on the line for me?” Liam whispers.

“Oh, shit,” Louis says. His breath is warm against Liam’s shirt. “Um… Simon called me up this morning. The ratings have him spooked.”

“What? _My_ ratings? But I've only had good ones.”

“I know, I know…”

Louis pulls back from him so they can look at each other. He wets his lips. Liam feels all fluttery and funny inside, looking at Louis so close. It's like he wants to kiss him.

No -- he _does_ want to kiss him. That knowledge surges through his body like an electrical shock. Liam stands stock-still, not moving a muscle.

“It's, um,” Louis murmurs, “it's just we aren't pulling millennials as much as he expected. I reckoned this might happen. I told him his expectations were out of line, he thought too big. I think he's just got some buyer's remorse, ‘cos you're so young, but -- we've got this, lad, you've got me in your corner. We won't let you fail, I promise. And I can head him off whenever he gets like this.”

“He wanted me,” Liam says, feeling totally unmoored, clinging to Louis like he's physically tethering him to the ground.

“I know. It ain't you, it ain't personal. It's how he operates.” Louis hesitates. “For what it's worth, I still do. Want you, I mean.”

His hand is still pressed to the small of Liam’s back. He squeezes Liam’s shirt in his hand, bunching it up like a little kid. Liam’s chest aches like someone's driven a train through it.

“Look, if you wanted to leave --” Louis continues.

“No,” Liam says passionately. “I’m not. I'm not leaving.”

“Payno --”

“I'm not leaving.”

“Listen --

“Louis. I'm not leaving you. Alright? I'm not.”

Louis gazes up at him. “Well, alright,” he says, and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Liam thinks he catches him smiling a little. “Good.”

They separate, then.

“I think you can front this story for me that Rob’s picking up,” Louis says. “New NHS ambulances throughout London.”

“Got it. Hey, one last thing,” Liam says. “He asked me if Harry’s happy --”

Louis rolls his eyes and hops off the desk. “‘Course he did.”

“And then if you were happy.”

Louis eyes him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“They've tried to get in touch with me before,” Louis says. “For -- you know. A meeting. But I think mostly they assume I'm Simon’s man.”

“Aren’t you?” Liam teases.

Louis elbows him gently. “Nah. I'm me own man, Payno, always.”

 

/

 

“Oi, they're at it again,” Perrie says, as they're getting out of the car.

Harry glances at her. “What's up?”

Perrie points across the parking lot. Harry squints into the late afternoon sun.

Liam and Louis are outside talking while Louis smokes. He always smokes before his show. They keep up a funny body language with each other -- dancing into each other’s personal space, then dancing back out. Louis is all loose-hipped and bouncy on his feet. Liam keeps shifting his weight. They're both smiling hard as they talk.

Harry sighs. “Yeah, I dunno what that's all about.”

“D’you think Liam’s…” Perrie walks her fingers over the hood of the car, as if this suggests something. He always finds it funny the lengths straight people will go to to avoid saying the word.

“I honestly can't tell,” Harry says. “He could be a sort of sexually anxious straight bloke, or, I dunno, closeted like Nick likes to say. We've flirted with each other a bit, all innocent.” He pauses. “We’ve been taking a boxing class together, so it's naturally sort of… like, sweaty, and everything…”

“So Nick thinks he is?”

“I mean, Nick thinks everyone is.”

“But what do you think?”

“I think he might have thing for Louis,” Harry says, glancing over at them. “He does talk about him all the time. But I dunno if that _means_ anything… I think Louis gets on the end of a lot of innocent little work crushes. He's a big flirt, and he's in a leadership post.”

“And he's funny, and charming.”

Harry's eyes rove over Louis. He smiles distantly. “Right.”

“I fancied him, ages ago,” Perrie says, slinging her tripod over her shoulder.

“Shit, really?” Harry says, grabbing her camera for her so she doesn't have to double up.

They head toward the side door, so they don't disturb Louis and Liam.

“Right after he started here. But he was dating that Corky girl, and then I started up with Zayn, and he got together with you. And then we got too tight and now I don't even think of him that way. Missed connections.”

“Gets sort of incestuous around here,” Harry says with a grin, holding the door open.

“It does! Well, nearly everyone has a crush on _you_ , you know. We talk all the time about how we wish you dated girls.”

He winks at her. “Sorry. That ship sailed back in uni.”

“I know, I know. So -- how'd you and Louis get together? ‘Cos I think I started here right after that,” Perrie says as they head into the equipment room. She starts unpacking the camera.

“I think we were out at a pub?” Harry says. “I barely remember. I think I made a dumb joke about something sort of sexual, and then he came onto me, and we ended up back at his. And we sort of went on like that, and a month later, he brings me a curry and he's like, Oh hi, want to be boyfriends?”

“Oh, that's so sweet.” She sighs. “I still feel awful for all the shit you two got about it around here. It really wasn’t -- I mean, me and Zayn never got that level of nonsense.”

He nods.

“It was pretty clearly because you were both men.”

“I do wonder sometimes,” Harry says, and laughs ruefully, “if Simon is keeping me back on purpose, ‘cos he's sort of still punishing me for having dated Louis. In my more dramatic moods, anyway.”

Perrie shrugs. “Sounds like something he’d do, honestly.”

Harry leans over and pops her camera battery out so he can stick it on the charger. “Right… I've got to go get pretty for my studio hit.”

“Would you mind if they did date?” Perrie says. “Him and Liam?"

“I dunno. I really can't imagine it happening. It’d be even more drama than me and Louis was. They work together way more closely.”

“But if it did…”

He pauses. “D’you know something I don't?”

“Nah,” Perrie says, and fixes him with a serious look. “But I do think there's something there.”

Harry rifles through his feelings like they're a Rolodex. “Um,” he says. “I’d be alright with it.” He pauses. “I just want Louis happy."

Perrie laughs. “So evolved.”

“I mean.” Harry sucks at his teeth. “I'd be _sort_ of bothered, to be perfectly honest.”

“Aha!” Perrie crows as she leads the way out of the room. “Not so evolved after all.”

Harry chuckles puts his hands on her shoulders as they go down the hall. “I'm only human..."

“Louis doesn't like that you're seeing Nick, you know.”

“I know he doesn't. And I didn't like when he got back with Eleanor, so he can stuff it.”

“Am I petty if I relate so much more to that than --” (Perrie adopts a drawl to imitate him) “-- ‘I just want him to be happy’?”

Harry laughs.


	16. Chapter 16

Simon chooses the Corinthia for Walsh’s going-away party. When they’ve all packed into the lobby on a dreary Thursday evening, he claps his hands to get their attention.

He’s lit up grandly by the massive round crystal chandelier overhead, one button on his shirt open, and in Louis’ estimation he looks a touch more smarmy than usual.

“There is an open bar tab,” he says, “just tell them you’re with ITV. And we’ve got a room upstairs for your coats, et cetera, or if anyone has too much to drink and needs a snooze. Come to me to get the key card.” He glances to Walsh, who’s standing beside him. “Louis may want to say a few words later…”

“Let’s get a few drinks in me first,” Walsh says, and they all laugh. “So I’m nice and maudlin.”

“Right, well, there you are. And we might ask Payne to say a few words as well.”

The gathered crowd all looks around for Liam.

“He isn’t even here yet,” Niall whispers. “The man of the hour.”

“I think everyone’s more focused on Walsh,” Harry murmurs. “He looks like he might cry any minute. Should I go tell him I’ll miss him?”

“Are you actually going to? And Liam texted me he was running late,” Louis says, glancing at his watch.

“Anyway! Party, mingle, enjoy,” Simon says, and leaves them to it.

Louis rings Liam, stepping aside. He doesn’t get him on the first try, and anxiously tries again.

“I’m coming!” Liam says into the phone. He’s breathing heavily.

Louis furrows his brow. “Not running all the way here, are you?”

Liam laughs. “Jogging from my car. Power walking, now… It took me ages to find parking.”

“Don’t worry about it, mate, Simon’s done anyway. He just wanted to talk about the open bar. No rush.”

“Oh, cheers,” Liam says, and they ring off.

Liam’s seemed keyed up all day. He and Cheryl had a hug in the newsroom for ages, earlier, cooing to each other about how much they’d miss doing the weekend together. Louis had been amused by this for about twenty seconds, then found it less cute the longer it went on, then finally interrupted them with, “Sharon’s going to take perfectly good care of you, Payno, I promise,” which caused them to sheepishly separate.

He finally gets there two minutes later, a bit flushed but looking very handsome in a dark blue suit and thin black tie. Louis waits from him out front, smoking.

Liam walks up to him with a cocked eyebrow, looking him up and down. Checking him out, even. Louis blows out a puff of smoke and gives him a smile, hiding his nerves.

“Hi there,” he says. “Man of the hour. You’re fuckin’ late, you are.”

“Wo-ow,” Liam says, totally ignoring this. “The Tommo in a _suit_.”

Louis’ face grows hot under his attention. Liam is biting his full bottom lip as he looks at him.

“What's special about me in a suit?”

“I've never seen you in one before, is all.”

“Oh come on,” Louis says. A breeze ruffles Liam’s hair. His dark eyes are twinkling. “I don't believe that.”

“No! Not once. It’s always jeans or joggers. Or football shorts.”

“Well,” Louis says, and gestures to himself. It's simple, but simple flatters him. Lou always tells him that.

“And you got a haircut.”

Louis fiddles with his fringe. “I did.”

“Give us a twirl?”

“Ah, fuck off…” He does it anyway, of course.

“You clean up nice,” Liam says, his voice soft. He brings his gaze up to Louis’ eyes.

“You don't look so bad yourself,” Louis says, his voice a soft purr.

Liam grins happily.

Louis stamps his cigarette out. “D’you, um -- you wanna -- we ought to be, y’know, let’s get inside.”

“Lead on, boss man.”

 

*

 

They all wait in line at the crowded bar for ages; Louis jokes around with Calvin about everyone’s drink order says about them (Sharon gets a screwdriver, which means she’s going to go home and jump on Ozzy, Jade gets a white wine, which means she’s trying to avoid going home with Rob like she did at the last Christmas party, Harry gets a vodka soda, which means he’s on a cleanse again, Mel C gets a spritzer because she doesn't want to be bloated or hungover for the morning show tomorrow).

“Ooh,” Calvin says, leaning on the bar. “Your boy Liam just got a, what d’you call ‘em? Long Island iced tea?”

“Yeah?” Louis swivels around tipsily and glances over. Liam is sipping a tall drink and talking to Andy. “He better pace himself.”

“Yeah, wouldn't want any whiskey dick,” Calvin says.

Louis cuts his eyes at him. Calvin makes kissy noises. Louis shoves him in the chest.

“Fuck off...”

Calvin stops the kissy noises and starts miming a blowjob. Louis gets him in a headlock and they crash around, laughing and swearing at each other. They knock into some posh older woman who looks askance at them and says, “My _word!_ ”

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis pants, straightening up and swiping at his suit. Calvin grabs their drinks off the bar, hands Louis’ to him, then takes him by the shoulders and guides him back toward the lobby where the rest of their drunken coworkers are.

“Payno,” he moans in Louis’ ear. “Ooh, you’ve got such nice pecs, _mate_ , d’you do CrossFit? D’you do burpees? Can you bench me?”

“I’ll kill you,” Louis hisses at him.

“You ever measure your willy? _”_ he says, in a breathy imitation of Louis. “No, _around,_ not just long-ways, bruv --”

“You are a cunt, sincerely.”

Still laughing, Calvin gently pushes him toward the couches where Perrie, Jesy and Leigh Anne are piled over each other, listening as Olly tells a story about stopping a mugging on the Tube that apparently requires him to gesture wildly with a sloshing glass in his hand and have his left Oxford propped up on the coffee table like he’s Captain Morgan.

“Hey Lou,” Ed says. He’s on the other couch with Jade and Michael; they’re both flushed-faced and Jade is, for some reason, shoeless. “Tell us about how you got your face broken.”

Calvin lets go of his shoulders and flops down next to the girls, forcing them to make room for him.

“Yeah, alright, let me get Liam.”

But Liam’s walking over with Andy right as he says this. “Who needs Liam?” he says. He’s cute from drinking, twinkly and smiley.

“I need Liam,” Louis says to him. “This lot wants to hear about when that Labour kid busted my lip.”

“Ohh! Alright,” Liam says brightly, and he comes over and wraps a casual arm around Louis’ shoulders. “So, this was when we went to go talk to Farage…”

 

/

 

The group of them on the couches gets drunker and drunker, sending occasional emissaries back to the bar to bring back an armful of drinks for the rest of them. Their other coworkers mingle around the lobby, for the most part more sober -- the notable exception is a row that erupts between an equally loaded Mels B and C, which leaves C away in a huff and B having a whispery, angry confessional with a sympathetic Cheryl off in the corner.

Walsh decides to break the ensuing awkward silence by giving his goodbye speech right then and there. He’s sort of pissed himself, and ends up in tears by the end, inexplicably turning to Harry to cry on him. Harry hugs him with a confused expression and mouths _Why me?_ at Louis, who laughs and shrugs.

Simon looks at Walsh, unmoved and rather baffled by his weeping, and claps his hands. “Liam,” he says. “Want to say a few words?”

Liam untangles himself from underneath Niall, Andy, and Jade’s legs, then stumbles into Louis, who rights him.

“Keep it short,” Louis says with a smile. “You're tiddly.”

Liam laughs as he walks away and moves through the crowd.

“Um, hi everyone,” he says, once he gets over to Simon.

“Hi, Liam,” Andy calls.

They all laugh. Liam grins.

“So, I just wanted to say, you know -- it's an honor, really, to be stepping into such big shoes.”

Walsh, standing off to the side, smiles.

“And I really look forward to working more closely with all of you, everyone here. It's going to be -- I'm really excited. Very jazzed. And I really appreciate, you know, all the help and support everyone's put into this transition.” Liam inhales. “So -- yeah! Let’s all have a good time tonight, and um… tomorrow’s a new era, I suppose.”

Perrie whoops and starts clapping. Everyone else follows suit.

Louis goes to set his glass of wine down so he can join in, and sloshes it all over himself.

“Fuck,” he says amiably.

“Oh, shit, go take care of that straight away upstairs,” Jade says. “Red wine’s really hard to get out. I've got the keycard, here…”

Louis takes it from her with a thank you and heads to the lift. He's tipsier than he thought; his brain is noisy with splintered thoughts and his cock is stirring in his trousers. He leans back against the fancy gold walls of the elevator and stares up at his fuzzy reflection in the ceiling.

Once he's alone in the hotel room, he lets out a breath he's been holding since Calvin took the piss out of him. Or maybe since Liam looked him up and down while biting his lip. Or maybe he's been holding it since February, even.

Louis strips, tossing his jacket onto the bed and sticking his shirt under the bathroom sink under the running tap. He staggers back into the main part of the suite. It's a fantastic hotel, with big heavy curtains and lovely beds.

Louis collapses backwards onto one, his chest rising and falling as he looks up at the ceiling. His head spins. He starts idly palming his cock through his trousers. He wonders if he could get away with sneaking a wank up here.

Someone knocks on the door. He gets up, annoyed, and answers it.

It's Liam.

They stand there looking at each other in total silence, save for the distant rush of water in the bathroom.

“Hi there,” Liam says. “You vanished.”

His dark eyes are glowing and liquid; they roam over Louis, never settling. Louis becomes abruptly aware of his shirtlessness.

“Spilled wine on myself,” Louis says, and steps back so he can come in.

“Red?” Liam calls over his shoulder as he moves through the suite.

“Aye, yeah.”

Liam ducks into the bathroom and reappears with his shirt, then squeezes it dry and lays it across the bed. He fetches a salt shaker from a tray above the minbar and starts sprinkling it on the stain.

Louis watches him, his hands on his hips. “They teach you this in Scouts?”

Liam laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, my mum did.”

“Karen spill a lot of wine on you?”

Liam laughs harder. “Yeah, all the time. Quite a rough childhood we had. Alright…” He straightens up. “Just let that set.”

Louis sits down on the bed across from the one that's serving as an operating table for his shirt.

Liam glances over at him. In the dim, warm lighting, his expression is sort of hard to read.

“C’mere,” Louis says. The throatiness of his voice surprises him.

Liam obeys, his steps light and catlike. His tie is loose around his neck. He meets Louis’ eyes, again; his irises two dark pools between thick lashes. He blinks at him, slowly, and wets his bottom lip.

He kneels on the bed.

Louis is practically vibrating from nervous energy. The air in the room is buzzing.

“The tap,” Liam says suddenly. “I left the -- the sink’s on.”

Louis stares at him. He wonders if Liam can tell how fast his little rabbit heart is thudding in his chest.

“Well,” he says, and gets up to go fix that.

Louis ignores his reflection in the mirror as he turns the water off. Probably he's imagining things. Probably he’s been acting inappropriately, even. He's drunk. Liam’s drunk, he's a confused drunk straight bloke.

And then there are footsteps behind him and he turns, and Liam’s standing there, looking for all he's worth like a nervous teenager.

He comes tentatively toward Louis, getting closer and closer. Louis grips the counter behind himself and stops breathing.

Liam gets within an inch of touching him, and stops there. Louis aches with need.

“Liam,” he whispers.

They gaze at each other.

“You're trembling,” Liam says with concern.

Louis realizes that he is.

“I'm cold,” he says, even though that isn't true. It's the adrenaline.

Liam tips his head. They bring their faces closer, closer. Louis stares up at him, pressed between him and the sink.

“Liam,” he says again, his voice small and throaty. He sounds like he's begging him. He is begging him. He isn't sure he's ever needed someone to touch him this badly in his life; he's in total agony, standing here.

Liam hesitates for a fraction of a second, then kisses him.

Louis mind whites out. It's like a shot has gone off in the room -- he's so shocked by the reality of Liam’s lips on his that he staggers. Liam grabs him hard around his bare waist and they stumble  around the bathroom, rubbing together needily, moaning into each other's mouths.

Liam kisses like a question, sure of himself but lingering, like he wants to know it's alright. Louis fists his hands in Liam’s mousse-sticky hair, his cock stiffening at the sensation of his stubble dragging rough across his cheek and then along his throat as he sucks at Louis’ neck.

“God,” he gasps, gripping Liam hard by the back of the suit jacket. “Fuck --”

They crash backward together against the bathroom wall and snog more roughly, biting at each other’s lips. Louis arches his back against the wall and slides a knee between Liam’s legs, rubbing at his cock and thighs; Liam shoves his hands down Louis’ pants and clutches hard at his arse. Louis’ gut burns with ecstasy at this. His spine is tingling.

“Thought you were a gentleman,” Louis teases breathily. Liam lets out a choked moan of pleasure and starts kissing at his throat again.

There's a hard rap at the door.

They freeze without separating, their mouths a centimeter apart. Louis tries to look at him and goes cross-eyed. They stand there breathing each other’s air.

“Hey,” calls Niall’s voice, and he knocks again. “Liam? Simon’s lookin’ for you.”

“Shit, fuck,” Louis hisses in a panic, ducking away from him and going back into the suite only to find his shirt is still wet.

He turns to Liam, who’s standing there with a stricken expression. He's a mess -- his lips are red and his hair’s all askew.

Niall knocks a third time. Louis steels himself and goes to answer the door.

“Hey, is --”

He stops himself as soon as he gets a good look at Louis, who crosses his arms over his bare chest.

Liam, looking jumpy, squeezes by them in the doorway.

“I'll, um -- I’ll find Simon,” he says, clearing his throat as he backs away into the hall.

“Fix yourself up first,” Louis says. His voice helps betray them; it's husky and low in his chest. “You’re -- like, go look in a mirror.”

The two of them stare at each other with hopeless longing for a moment. Then Liam nods, turns and strides away.

Niall rounds on Louis the second he's gone. “You're kiddin’ me, right?” he says. This is punctuated by one of his nervous laughs.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Louis mutters, retreating back into the suite. He swipes the salt off his shirt and fetches the blow dryer so he can get dressed as fast as possible.

Niall rubs the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “Um -- alright.”

“Nothing happened!”

“Alright!”

Louis, now alone with the enormity of what just happened, wants to kick something. He starts to speak, finds he has nothing to say, and turns the hair dryer on.

“I --” Niall bites his lip. “I mean, _somethin’_ happened.”

“Clearly, Neil! Clearly _somethin’_ happened! Christ,” Louis exclaims, hitting the back of the hand dryer, “this thing’s fuckin’ useless, innit?”

“What did happen?”

Louis sets his jaw. “I, um. I dunno. We kissed.”

Niall whistles. “Like -- what, a peck?”

“Like snogging. ‘E had his ‘ands down me pants.”

Niall goggles at him.

“I didn't _plan_ this,” Louis exclaims. “I mean, fuck, I didn't know he even really -- I thought we were just flirting, like!”

He tries not to think about the lonely nights he's spent imagining Liam touching him, all the times he's brought himself to orgasm with that mental image, or with gay porn of men who look like Liam, all the time he's spent afterward lying in bed feeling sick with guilt, thighs trembling, his stomach speckled with his own come.

“Hey,” Niall says gently. Louis looks up at him. “You can talk t’ me about this. Yeah?”

“I know, I know. I don't have anythin’ to tell you, honestly. Let's just get back downstairs.”

Niall laughs. “Cockblocked you, didn't I? Just realized.”

“Completely, lad. But don't worry about it.”

 

/

 

They avoid each other for the rest of the night.

Louis doesn't mean for this to happen; it's just there's no way they're going to be able to talk about it, and he doesn't want to be around Liam if they can't talk about it. It would be too difficult for him.

His shirt is stiff from the salt and not entirely dry. It looks fine under his jacket, but he's uncomfortable. He keeps shifting around as he stands in the lobby, downing drink after drink, chatting with anyone who walks by, pretending he doesn't see Liam casting miserable glances his way all night.

Louis goes out to smoke around one in the morning. The lobby door opens behind him, and he turns to see Liam and Andy on their way out.

“Oh, hey,” Andy says.

Louis’ stomach clenches like a fist. Liam is very intentionally not looking at him.

“Hi,” he says. “Heading out?”

“Yeah,” Andy says, nudging Liam. “Driving this one home.”

“Good,” Louis says, ashing his cigarette. “Have him fresh for my show tomorrow.”

“That's the plan,” Andy says cheerfully.

Liam bites the inside of his cheek and finally makes eye contact with Louis, who mouths, _Talk tomorrow_?

Liam gives him a curt little nod. This stings Louis, who swallows over the lump in his throat and takes a long drag.

The two of them walk away into the night. Andy is joking around about something. Liam laughs, a little too crisply for it to be genuine. The sound rings down the street.


	17. Chapter 17

But they don't talk the next day, either.

It isn't even Louis’ fault. He tries, a few times, but Simon is down on the newsroom floor all day fussing over the show, wanting Liam’s first day to go as smoothly as possible.

And then the bigwigs from Entertainment that Paul had warned him about arrive and start talking his ear off. As he fake-smiles through his conversation with them, Louis keeps seeing Liam out of the corner of his eye, roaming around with his foundation half-applied, mouthing along to printed-off scripts.

He wants desperately to just go over to him, but he keeps stopping himself, remembering where they are. They settle for exchanging furtive glances like schoolboys.

They get a moment alone together in the studio, ten minutes to air. Louis pretends to be adjusting his mic and whispers, “I wasn't blowin’ you off last night. I just knew I couldn't get you in private.”

“Alright,” Liam says, looking deeply relieved.

“I want us to like --” Louis swallows. “We should actually talk. Soon.”

“I can't tonight,” Liam whispers. “I have plans.”

Louis stops fiddling and clasps his hands on Liam’s shoulders. Liam gazes at him.

“This is dangerous stuff, isn't it?” he murmurs.

Louis laughs. “I, um… Yeah.” He rubs at his nose. “Love to know what you're thinking.”

“I don't think _I_ even know what I'm thinking,” Liam says.

Louis’ heart sinks. He nods. “Why don't we give it a few days, then,” he says, “and sort it out, and we’ll… y’know.”

“A few days?”

“Just ‘til things quiet down, maybe.”

Liam clears his throat. “I just -- I can't stop thinking about you.”

Louis’ heart jumps. He nods in pained agreement.

“Places,” Calvin calls, and the lights start moving overhead.

Louis pats Liam on the chest and walks away, slipping into the shadows.

 

/

 

The last place Liam wants to be after unexpectedly snogging Louis is in a boxing class with Harry, but that’s where he spends his Saturday mornings, now.

His head isn’t in it at all. His head isn’t really in anything since Thursday. All he can think about is Louis.

When he went downstairs after they kissed, Simon and Walsh had taken him aside in a little alcove. Liam stared at Walsh, tipsy and heartsick, and made a valiant effort at listening as he gave him career advice.

“You set the tone of the newsroom, now,” slurred Walsh, who was himself quite drunk at this point.

Simon kept slapping him enthusiastically on the back. Liam had just looked at the both of them, nonplussed.

Now Harry is throwing jabs at the punching bag Liam is holding, fast and powerful like he’s a professional boxer. Liam glances around the gym, not looking at anyone in particular, thinking about how good Louis’ lips felt on his, and then getting lost in all the attendant thoughts of how fucked he is for feeling that way.

The problem is that he now wants to do more than kiss him. That for the first time in all his life of sneaking glances at men, he’s finally having specific fantasies, ones with weight and heft and sharp edges.

“Liam,” Harry pants.

Liam glances up at him. “Yeah?”

“It’s all yours.”

Liam tugs his gloves back on. Harry grabs the bag and watches him, his chest rising and falling, his eyes bright.

“You been alright?” he finally says.

Liam nods. “Not bad, why?”

“You’ve seemed sort of off since the party, is all,” Harry says.

Liam throws a test punch, warming up. “Oh. A bit, yeah.”

Harry nods slowly. “It’s a lot of pressure you've been under,” he says.

“Hey, I like pressure,” Liam says. “Sometimes.”

Harry smiles. “Lighter note, did you see last night’s Bachelorette?”

“Noo, I’m behind! I feel like I never have time to watch anything, anymore.”

“You’ve got to watch this one, just for the bit where Chad goes off on Evan, I was pissing it...”

Looking at him, there are so many things Liam wants to ask, like, _What does it mean to want a man?_ and _How do I talk to Louis?_ and _What does it mean to want Louis?_

He punches the bag instead.

 

/

 

Once a week has gone by, Niall starts in on him.

“D’you think, like, maybe high time you addressed this,” he says the following Thursday. “‘Cos Liam wasn't at the concert, and he wasn't at football, and if nothin’ else, I miss him. I’m a child of divorce, Tommo, you can’t do this to me.”

Louis chuckles and then lets out a sigh. They're mostly alone in the newsroom; it's lunchtime. Mike is puttering around at the assignment desk, but he can't hear from back there.

“I told him to give it a few days an’ think on it,” Louis whispers. “Honestly, its better if we wait ‘til after the vote anyway.”

“Oh, lad,” Niall groans. “He’s great, don't get me wrong, but no’ exactly an emotional rocket scientist, yeah?”

Louis examines his fingernails. “That's fair, but --”

“You've got to be the one to go to him.”

“I'm the one who’s got all me cards on the table,” Louis mutters. “I'm the one -- I'm vulnerable. With me job, on a personal level, everythin’.”

“How? He's just as vulnerable.”

“Look,” Louis says sort of miserably. “Let me work it out. Let me do the adult thing for once, and give it a mo.” He hesitates. “I can’t just blindly wreck things for him, alright? I’ve gotten him this far.  He doesn’t know what he’s getting into, but I do. I’ve been here before. So I’m bein’ cautious. Leave it at that.”

Niall puts his hands up in surrender.

“Hey,” Mike calls, loudly.

Their attention immediately snaps to him.

“Just got this over the scanners -- woman shot and stabbed, both multiple times. In broad daylight.”

“Where?” Louis says, getting to his feet and coming over.

“Library in Birstal.”

“Who’s our closest MMJ? It's Harry, yeah?”

“Right. Want me to send him?”

“Yeah, and keep an eye on this, please.”

 

/

 

Harry rings him a half-hour later.

“It's an assassination attempt,” he says, sounding shaken.

“What?” Louis exclaims.

“It's the MP for Batley and Spen. Jo Cox. My cop friend is here at the scene, so he's fed me some details, but they've pushed press way way back, across the road.”

“Holy shit.” The gears in his brain begin to spin. “Jo Cox? Labour, right?”

“Right.”

“Remainer, right?”

In the background, he can hear people talking.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “And the shooter -- a witness we got said he was yelling, like... Britain first.”

Louis’ blood runs cold. “Seriously? Like the BNP freaks?”

“Right. She got taken to the hospital, we’ll probably head there soon.”

“Alright, keep me updated.”

“Will do.”

Louis rings Liam.

“Hey,” Liam says. “I’m on my way in.”

“I need you at the desk, mate,” Louis says, already beginning to type up a script. “We’re breaking through the cricket game, we need to do a two p.m.-er. Someone’s just tried to assassinate an MP.”

“Shit, seriously?”

He hears Liam fiddling with the radio, turning his music down.

“Aye, I'll send you the details.”

“Alright. I'll be in as fast as I can.”

“Please no speeding.”

“Pedal to the floor. Going to crash right into the studio. Get ready.”

Louis laughs. “See you then.”

 

/

 

Sharon calls in with the flu, of all things, so Liam is going to have to fly solo on a breaking story with constantly evolving elements.

“Sorry about all this,” Louis whispers to him as they go over scripts together, five minutes to air.

“Sorry for what? It's my job,” Liam murmurs.

They exchange a searching look. Louis reaches up and fixes an errant piece of Liam’s hair.

Harry gets the charging docs for the shooter, and feeds them information through texts. Louis sits in the control room, talking steadily in Liam’s ear. They've got a lot of time to fill between tosses to Harry, so Louis at times is whispering entire monologues of information to Liam and listening as Liam relays them with unerring crispness, handsome and calm up behind the desk.

Watching him, Louis gets angry at Simon all over again for having doubts.

When he steps back out into the newsroom, blinking from the sudden bright lights, he realizes this has become an all hands on deck situation. Everyone is milling around, looking unsettled. A gaggle of people has gathered around the monitor that shows the studio feed (currently on a commercial break and advertising Freddos).

Jade leans out from the gaggle. “Liam’s doing fantastic,” she calls to him.

Louis nods proudly. “He is. He is.”

 

/

 

At five minutes to the five o’clock show, Louis gets the text.

 _She's dead_ , Harry says.

Louis is hit with a wave of nausea.

 _Fuck. alright,_ he says back. _time to reshuffle_

_I think I can get the husband for a short sit down. Want it by six?_

_Please, if you can. Send the details_

Louis would tell him no, any other time. Don't bother the husband. But this wasn't a random murder, it was political, and he trusts Harry to be good and kind about it.

He gets in Liam’s ear. “Payno… Jo’s dead.”

“God,” Liam says sadly. “That’s awful.”

Louis clears his throat. “That'll be the top of this show. I'm rewriting, you'll have to read cold again, I'm sorry.”

“That's alright. Whatever you need.”

“Good man,” Louis says, his voice soft, and takes his headphones off.

 

/

 

Simon rings Louis’ mobile right after half five.

“Great work,” he says.

“Tell it to Liam,” Louis says unpleasantly. “The bloke you apparently aren't so sure about, who's led every top of the hour since two o’clock today, _alone_ , reading cold almost every time, with barely any mistakes and not a single complaint yet.”

Olly looks over from the director’s computer, raising his eyebrows in amusement. No one gets away with talking to Simon the way Louis does.

“I will tell Liam,” Simon says. He sounds as chastened as it's possible for him to sound. “And Harry.”

“And Niall. Mike, even. Everyone on the floor. And Olly.”

Olly gives him a thumbs up.

“Right. But great work on a tough story, Louis.”

He softens. “Thanks. Thank you.”

 

/

 

Harry is supposed to meet the husband in the hospital car park. He ends up vomiting in a flower box before he makes it over there. He's spent the entire afternoon drinking hospital coffee on an empty stomach, and it doesn't mix well with his nerves.

Niall sets his gear down, comes over and rubs his back. He seems pretty shaken about this interview, himself. Harry spotted him wiping away tears after they found out Jo was dead.

It's a nice, cool summer day. Harry presses his forehead to the cool concrete.

“D’you have gum?” he says, and Niall laughs.

“Got you covered, Harold.”

Harry straightens up. “I feel awful about this.”

“Hey,” Niall says gently, “if anyone can do this right, it's you.”

“Sometimes I dunno how much longer I can keep doing this job,” Harry admits. “This sort of thing… it's just, Christ, it's awful. This chasing tragedies and bothering grieving people...”

“I know,” Niall says in a quiet voice. “Hey, I don't like it either."

“We're soft,” Harry says, and laughs ruefully.

“Let’s just, y’know… get in, get out, and be kind in t’ middle.”

Harry nods. Niall squeezes his shoulder.

 

/

 

Before the six o’clock, Liam goes looking for Louis.

He finds him in a darkened edit bay, alone, curled up in a booth and watching Harry’s interview with Jo’s husband on a little monitor.

Liam is sort of nervy about being alone with him, but he comes over anyway.

Louis is crying. Not out loud, but tears are streaming silently down his cheeks. When Liam sits next to him, he lets out a choked noise.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice raspy. “Sorry, I'm just -- y'know --”

“No, no,” Liam assures him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and resting his cheek against Louis’ head.

“It's so evil,” he says.

“I know,” Liam whispers. “It's awful.”

Louis clears his throat and fishes in his pocket for a tissue, wiping his eyes.

“I should finish writing,” he says. “So you can read over the scripts. I'm sorry, your brain is probably mashed potatoes by now, I shouldn't keep you waiting.”

“It's alright,” Liam assures him, and strokes his hair. He probably oughtn’t do that, but touching him feels natural. “Take as long as you need.”

Louis looks up at him, his blue eyes bright from his tears. “Hey,” he says, sounding tender.

Liam’s lower lip twitches. “Hey,” he says back. His arm is still around Louis’ shoulders.

“You’ve been fantastic today.”

Liam demurs. “Harry’s been fantastic.”

“No, mate, you both have. You were so calm and together… and going it totally alone, no Sharon? I never dreamed it’d go as well as it did. Honestly.”

“Most of it was having you in my ear,” Liam says, and they look at each other, full eye contact.

Liam’s heart is thudding frantically, trying to climb up out of his throat. His lips are burning now. He wants to kiss Louis again, so badly he can hardly think of anything else.

“We do need to talk,” Louis says, his gaze flicking away.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, relieved he acknowledged it. “But today’s just so --”

“Aye, I should get back --”

“And just, you know, text me when everything’s in the rundown --”

“Will do, yeah.”

Liam untangles himself from Louis, stumbling a bit in the dark, hitting the monitor with his elbow. He winces and Louis grabs him by the arm, chuckling.

“You good, Payno?”

“Long day,” Liam says, smiling.

Louis nods. His eyelashes are still glistening wet. “Long day.”


	18. Chapter 18

Remain surges in the polls, after. The closer the vote gets, the more it looks like they might make a near miss of Leave.

Liam and Louis hesitantly fall back into their old routines -- talking Brexit over tea, workshopping scripts together. They still feel the sexual tension between them like it's a third person in the room, but they’re on standby for the time being, two butterflies in amber. Louis keeps finding himself staring at Liam from across the studio, or watching him on the monitor, trying to puzzle out what's going on inside his head.

They can talk on June 24th. That's what he keeps telling himself.

Two days before, the two of them are holed up in the archive room looking for court documents from a February story. They're getting comfortable around each other again, slipping into some light flirting.

“Payno,” Louis says, and holds up an ancient mugshot of a toothless, tattooed gangster woman from the 1920s. “Is this your nan?”

“Um, speak for yourself,” Liam says, chuckling.

“Wow, you implyin’ something about my family, mate?”

“I mean, it would explain your own criminal tendencies.”

“I only do victimless crimes,” Louis says, poking him in the back as he comes back around the shelf Liam’s digging through. “‘Cept for the mass terrorist act I do every night, when I put your gob on television.”

Liam turns and grabs him by the waist, wrestling him. Louis tries to get him in a headlock. Laughing, they crash into a shelf and send a few binders of records tumbling to the floor.

The two of them straighten up, breathing heavily. Liam eyes Louis with sparkling curiosity. He hasn't got a suit on yet; he's dressed down in a soft grey tee. He looks very boyish and sweet.

Louis steps closer to him. He slips his hands over the back of Liam’s neck, ruffling the short hair there, and they kiss.

Liam lets out a soft sigh almost the moment their lips touch, and Louis’ heart flutters at hearing it. He presses closer against him, stroking his hair. Liam wraps his hands around Louis’ ribcage and tugs him closer, lifting him onto his tiptoes.

Louis’ gut clenches and he eagerly presses his tongue into Liam’s mouth. They snog like that for a minute or so, then pull away from each other at the same time.

Liam nuzzles Louis as he lets his grip on him loosen. Louis, aching, clears his throat.

“Tommo,” Liam whispers.

“Anyone could walk in here.”

“I know...”

Louis kisses the prickly underside of his jaw. He wants him so badly he can barely breathe. They start rubbing against each other again. Liam’s hand moves south, tentatively, brushing against his belt buckle. Electricity shoots through Louis. He gasps against Liam’s throat. Liam’s touch shrinks away.

Louis still has a hand around the back of his head; he scrunches his hair in his fingers. “Two days and Brexit’s over, right?”

“I hate all this waiting,” Liam says, sounding somewhat desperate.

Louis aches. Liam is warm and solid and vital under him. He wants so badly to just give himself over to this. “I hate it too. I just don't want the show to suffer ‘cos we’re distracted. Not right now, anyway.”

“I know, I know.”

“There's --” Louis sighs. “We’d have to talk about, like -- if someone walked in on us, I’m technically above you, I could get summarily dismissed. There's a whole process we'd have to go through, of like, lettin’ HR know --”

He breaks himself off, because they haven't even had a chance to talk yet about how they're going to define this thing between them, or what they're going to do about it.

“Maybe let’s not be alone together,” Liam says, sounding woebegone. He’s got the puppy eyes, now. “Maybe -- I can find the docs myself.”

They pull apart for real.

“Alright,” Louis says. “See you back in there.”

 

/

 

Brexit dawns on them warm and cloudy.

Louis goes to vote at his polling station before work. He waits in line for a half hour, tapping his foot, studying the people around him and wondering how they're voting. It's hard to tell. No one looks as keyed up as he is; they all might as well be in line at the post office.

He puts a bold cross mark next to _‘Remain a member of the European Union_ ’, turns the ballot in and goes outside to have a smoke before he heads to work.

Much to his surprise, Zayn appears in the morning fog of the car park, walking toward him. They do a double take at each other.

“Oi, you followin’ me around?” Louis calls.

Zayn laughs and ambles over, hands in his pockets. “Apparently. Can I bum one?”

“If you can handle a real smoke after all those menthols,” Louis ribs him, handing over a cigarette.

“What are you even on about, bruv? You smoke lights.”

“That's fair.”

Zayn bends to light it, cupping his hands against the breeze coming off the river. “So you vote yet?”

“Just did.”

Zayn grins. “Leave, right?”

Louis laughs. “Yeah, ‘course.”

“Sort of a weird vibe out today,” Zayn says. “On the Tube earlier, I was the only brown bloke. Some crazy-looking old bird wiv a bag full of cans kept lookin’ at me funny.”

“She was wondering if you're single.”

Zayn lets out a dry chuckle, then looks pensive.

Louis takes a long drag. “Most likely it won't happen,” he says.

“What, Leave? It better not. Christ, America’s embarrassin’ itself bad enough, we don't need to fall over while everyone's looking at us.”

“Seems like that sort of year, though,” Louis mutters.

“It does,” Zayn sighs. “Hey, I saw you had some good coverage on Jo Cox.”

“Oh, yeah,” Louis says, smiling. “Thanks, I was proud of that. Heard you were out there all day, too.”

“Aye, I kept running into Harry. We had a little chat, actually. All polite-like an’ everythin’.”

Louis is more relieved to hear this than he'd expect to be.

“And then when we got back, every time I checked ITV, Liam was on.” Zayn smiles. “Nice to see.”

“Liam's aces.”

“Could’ve told you that.” Zayn puts out his smoke on the sole of his boot. “Alright. Time to go vote.”

Nodding, Louis digs his keys out of his pocket. They exchange a wave and go their separate ways.

 

/

 

Liam’s never kissed a man before.

He's never done more than look. He's been terrified to, his entire life. For the longest time, all he wanted was to have the nice things that everyone else seemed to want: pretty wife, a few kids, a house, a dog.

He thought that wife would be Danielle, and things fell apart. He thought it would be Sophia, and he held onto her way longer than he ought to have.

Maybe you don't have a pretty wife and a few kids by the time you're twenty-seven. Maybe instead of working in a factory, you're on television. Maybe you meet a nice man who smiles at you a lot and takes the piss out of you just as much.

And then you don't know what to do when the all the looking and the longing becomes something tangible and real. You don't know what to do when he wants you too.

Liam know now why Louis said what he did in the car -- that he doesn't discuss his boy problems with his hetero friends. He suddenly has the same problem.

He wants to talk about this with Zayn, but Zayn wouldn't understand. He'd be nice about it, but lost, and maybe a little put off by it in his heart of hearts. That's what really scares Liam; not the outward reaction, but the inner, reflexive one. He wants everyone to like him, to find him nice and inoffensive at every level.

He can’t talk to his gay ex-flatmate, because they haven’t talked in ages and bringing this up would just be weird -- he can’t talk to Harry, because he’s Louis’ ex. He can’t talk to Niall, because Louis is probably talking to Niall.

So he doesn't say anything to anyone, which is bad, because he’s not working anything out in his head. He just dwells on Louis constantly. He yearns for him in silence, even worse now than he did before.

Liam comes in on Brexit day well-rested and full of jitters. He and Louis sneak glances at each other across the newsroom all afternoon. Liam studies the delicate structure of his face, he watches his hands as he types. He feels Louis’ eyes on him like twin spotlights as he's walking around.

They have a brief moment when they're alone in the edit bay together, signing off on the chyrons that will give viewers one last current tabulation of the vote at 1:30, before the station swaps to the morning crew.

“Sorry,” Louis murmurs. “For… um, y’know. The bad timing.”

For a second, Liam thinks he means something to do with the show, and then he realizes. He tentatively slips an arm around Louis’ waist and shakes his head.

“I kissed _you_ ,” he reminds him, a bit hesitantly.

It’s really nice to touch him, just comfortably like they do. Louis runs warm, always full of energy right below the surface, like he’s about to pop up and dash off. But he slows down when Liam touches him, the little hummingbird heartbeat easing, his eyelids lowering and his breath coming slower.

Liam feels it most of all when they kiss. It makes him want to lay down in bed with him and kiss him all day long.

Louis laughs. “You did, mate.”

“Maybe shouldn't have.”

“Nah. Would've happened anyway, I think.”

Liam runs his tongue over his teeth. “Yeah.”

He's scared, really. He's just as scared as Louis is, but it seems to be for different reasons. All the small and simple things Liam always wanted for himself have, this entire year, been slipping away like sand through his fingers, while his wildest dreams keep coming true. It's dizzying.

“Lottie knew,” Louis says, a little smile growing on his lips. “When I was visitin’ them last month, she kept asking me, So, you make a move on Liam yet?”

Liam laughs. “I like Lottie.”

“She likes you, too.”

Liam takes a deep breath. He wants to stay here with Louis, here in the dark.

“It’s almost over,” Louis says. “Brexit. By tomorrow, it's all over.”

“Yeah,” Liam says, relieved.

Louis taps the screen. “I like the blue one,” he says. “What d’you think?”

Liam lets go of him. “The blue looks good, yeah.”

 

/

 

“We've got another identical Tory tweet,” Louis murmurs into his headset as he watches Liam and Sharon on the monitor. “James Morris, Midlands MP, says ‘time for the conservatives to come together, no matter the result’.”

“... and that means we likely won't see another county or territory report before midnight,” Sharon finishes crisply, despite his voice in her ear.

“Correct,” Liam replies. “And we’re hearing right now that another Tory MP, James Morris, has toed the party line by tweeting that this is a time for conservatives to come together, no matter the result.”

“We've heard that line a lot tonight, haven't we?” Sharon says, her eyes twinkling. The mood in the studio has lifted since the good polls have continued to trickle steadily in. “We now take you live to Nigel Farage, who is addressing a crowd of press as a vote of Remain begins to look likely.”

As soon as the feed is swapped, Liam puts his head down on the desk and groans. Sharon strokes his back maternally. Across the studio, where she's standing in front of a monitor showing the results, Mel C paces around and yawns.

“Just a few more hours, everyone,” Louis says.

Liam pops his head back up and exhales, nodding. Oli goes over and hands him a cold bottle of water.

 

/

 

Right around midnight, everything starts going sideways.

Newcastle is way closer than expected. Then the pound starts slipping. Niall, who’s just got off shift, comes into the control room and loudly whispers, “What in the fuck?”

Louis mutes his headset. “I know,” he whispers, as he types details about the Sunderland returns frantically into the prompter before they come back from break.

“I just got back from filming Farage practically concedin’! It was over! What about the polls this mornin’?”

Olly swivels around in his chair. “Ain't over ‘til it's over, Horan.”

Louis’ heart has sunk somewhere down under his stomach.

The door to the studio opens, and they all glance up. It's Liam, standing there in a halo of light, looking bleary-eyed.

“Hey,” he whispers. “So when we come back, what's the mood? Pretty somber, right?”

“It's about to be a really long night,” Louis confirms. He looks back at his screen and realizes he's just typed some gibberish into the rundown. Liam distracts him like that.

“Alright,” Liam says, nodding.

“If we leave, U.K. itself’s pretty much done, isn't it?” Niall says, lacing his hands behind his head.

“Yeah, I mean, Scotland isn't going to want to go. So that's another indy ref at the very least,” says Olly.

“And Ireland’ll hate this,” says Niall.

“Cheerful prospects,” Louis says.

“So I'll project, like, calm, but the world is ending,” Liam says. “But we’re calm about it.”

“Feel free to crack some jokes, keep it light,” Louis suggests. “The Guardian pol twitter had a good one about the Scilly Isles. And you and Sharon are pretty funny.”

“I think I make a good straight man for her jokes, is what it is,” Liam says, smiling at him.

“Nah, you're funny too, lima bean. Alright, go on. Thirty seconds to air.”

Liam gives him a thumbs up and goes back into the studio, leaving the three of them in the shadows, anxiously watching the monitors.

 

/

 

At two in the morning, Louis climbs atop a desk in the newsroom and claps loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“Oi,” he calls. “Anyone who’s been here for ten hours or more, go home!”

“Lou, you've been here for sixteen,” Perrie yells back.

“That ain't relevant at all.”

“Yes it is,” says Paul, as he makes his way across the room.

“You can shut it, Paul.”

Paul comes over to him and snatches him around the waist, setting him on his feet on the floor. “Alright,” he says. “Besides Louis, who else has gone into overtime?”

Perrie reluctantly raises her hand. After a moment, so do Mike, Ed, Niall, and then Jesy over at the web desk.

“Harold. We see you back there.”

Harry sheepishly peeks his head around a computer monitor. “Only twelve hours!”

“Go home!” Louis and Paul shout at him in unison.

Andy leans back in his chair. “Don't let Louis tell you he has to stay, I'm taking over for him.”

“Good,” Paul says, and squeezes Louis’ shoulder. “Go home, kid. Get some sleep.”

“Don't make me leave,” Louis protests.

“Go home! Look,” Paul says, “it's gonna happen whether or not you're awake. We’re leaving. We've Brexited. It may not be official yet, but it's what's happening, and it won't make a spot of difference if you find out the hows and whys in an hour or tomorrow.”

Louis sighs. His head is swimming with exhaustion, but he's still holding onto a shred of hope that the vote will turn around and they'll somehow stay in. In his gut, he knows what he's known for months now. Paul is right.

Liam and Sharon stagger out of the studio with their arms wrapped around each other. Liam looks up at Louis. His hair has gone limp, and he's got dark circles under his eyes, but he flashes his teeth in a smile.

Louis smiles back. “Ready to go to bed, mate, wake up in a different Britain?”

“Ready to go to bed, absolutely,” Liam agrees. “Everything else is whatever.”

The two of them, joined by Niall and Harry, head out to the car park. Louis jingles his keys in his hand, lost in thought.

They really are going to leave. It feels like a sinking weight of disbelief in his chest, a mix between having known it really might happen all along and having somehow not expected it at all. He has a rather insane notion that he should have done more to stop it, but what could he have done?

“I totally thought, like, looking at the polls this morning, that we were safe,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes. “And when me and Niall were out getting Farage’s presser, he sounded like it was all over.”

“We got blindsided,” Louis says. “No one saw this.”

“Besides Alan,” Liam murmurs, and gives him a little smile.

Louis lets out a laugh. It rings through the quiet air. “Besides illegal bookies, apparently.”

“Speaking of Farage, Simon says I'm in early tomorrow,” Liam says. “Joining the breakfast show with Mel B, so I can grill him, since I sat down with him.”

Louis’ mouth falls open. “You're joking. I want to produce that.”

“Aw, no, Tommo, go home and sleep.”

“No, no. I'm producing that. You need me in your ear for that one, lad. Who's the producer? Andy, right?”

“Yeah, Andy,” Liam says hesitantly.

“Tell him I love him, but ‘e's bumped. This is too important. I can catnap and be back here in three hours.”

“Louis, no --”

Harry claps him Liam on the shoulder, smiling at Louis. “Don't waste your energy, Liam.”

“He’ll keep us here all night arguin’,” Niall says. Louis gives him the finger. “Alright, boys. Back here to fight the good fight tomorrow.”

They all nod, sort of sobered, and go their separate ways.

Louis thinks he feels Liam’s gaze on his back as he walks to his car. Just that thought is enough to make heat rise in his cheeks.

 

/

 

Godfrey wakes him the next morning by pouncing on the middle of his back and meowing in his ear for breakfast.

“Cheers,” Louis says, muffled against his pillow. He lifts his head enough to squint at his phone.

5:47.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he shouts, feinting to the left to drop the cat onto the bed and leaping to his feet. “Fuck, fuck.”

He throws some clothes on and careens from one room to the other, scatters a bunch of dry floor haphazardly on the floor for the cat, jumps into his car and screeches into the parking lot of ITV Studios at 6:03. He hurries straight into the control room, ignoring the general state of chaos and commotion in the newsroom.

There’s a ton of pastries on the goodies table, and someone’s put a sign up over it that says WHAT TIME TODAY WILL DODGY DAVE RESIGN? PLACE BETS IN NICK’S OFFICE.

There’s more people packed into the control room than there ever are -- six or so, including Niall.

“Thought you were sleeping,” Louis whispers to him, rounding a desk and nudging Andy, who stands and gives him the headset, then retreats to the back.

“Eh, I never sleep anyway,” Niall says with a laugh. “Got here an hour ago. Good news or bad news first?”

“Bad, always.”

“We called it for Leave ‘round four forty.”

“Christ,” Louis mutters.

“But Scotland and Ireland voted Remain by massive margins, so maybe they'll try and figure a way to stay in.”

“Quiet, please, everyone,” Chris says sharply. He’s a much less fun director than Olly.

Louis has a seat and looks up at the monitors, slipping the headset over his ears. Liam and Mel B are upstairs in the morning show studio -- it’s more cozy than the standard news one, it’s meant to put their subjects at ease. But Farage doesn’t look like he needs to be put at ease, right now. He looks like the cat that ate the canary.

Mel B is in the process of introducing Farage and summarizing what’s happened since Brexit became official. Liam sits beside her, listening, looking pensive.

“Samuels out, Tommo’s in the cockpit,” Louis says aloud.

He thinks he sees a flicker of a smile on Liam’s face, and then he scratches the left side of his nose with his middle finger, which is their little signal to each other.

Louis grins. “Ready to beat arse?”

Liam drops his hand and clasps both together, giving the slightest intimation of a thumbs up as he does.

“So, now, we’re out of the EU,” Mel says. She looks more serious than usual, her hair pulled back tight, wearing a dark blazer and a stiff upper lip. “Which was not a unilateral decision, I will say. We’ll likely lose Cameron, so we’re rudderless at the top. And we’re hearing that a lot of people are waking up today, right now, all over the UK, thinking, what have we done? I mean, we've got millions googling what Leave even means, this morning.”

Farage smiles. “Well, I would ask that they consider that what we’ve done is actually a good thing. That their shock will fade, and they’ll realize that a revolution has taken place, and we’ve taken back control of ourselves.”

“From who, though?” Mel presses him.

“Europe, of course. I mean, we are seeing a political repudiation all over the world of the sort of open globalism that is so badly failing countries like ours.”

“So this was a repudiation of immigration, in your eyes,” she counters. “Of immigrants themselves.”

Louis bites at the inside of his cheek as he listens.

“It was a repudiation of many things,” Farage replies smoothly. “There is clearly a silent majority in the UK, which no one truly expected --”

“Not even you,” Mel says. “You all but conceded, last night.”

“I am happily surprised, today, as I said I hoped I would be. But the idea that we can blindly accept these swarms of refugees clearly will not play --”

As he’s prattling on, Louis pulls up the notes he took on Liam’s Farage interview.

“Payno,” he whispers. “I’d like you bring up the NHS and hit him with a few direct quotes when he dodges. I’ll read you the relevant bits as he responds. Touch your wrist when you're ready.”

Liam waits for a lull in the conversation, then subtly indicates to Mel he's going to jump in and touches two fingers to his cufflink.

“So let’s talk about the three hundred and fifty million a week,” he says. “Because we could say that Leave being successful is down partly to that promise that Vote Leave made, that we'd give that money to the NHS instead.”

“That wasn't a promise,” Farage said. “It was a sort of alternate suggestion as to what we could possibly do with that money. And I never made that promise, myself.”

“Now, hang on,” Mel says.

Liam leans forward in his seat, steepling his fingers and looking hard at Farage, his dark eyes glittering.

“You said to me,” he says, “and you said this on Question Time as well --”

“Him: ‘I agree with the sentiment’,” Louis whispers into his ear. “You: ‘Giving it to the NHS?’ Him: ‘To our doctors, yes.’”

“You said, ‘I agree with the sentiment’. I asked, ‘Giving it to the NHS?’ You said yes.”

Farage’s nostrils flare. “Right, the _sentiment_. I never promised anything.”

“But the bus did,” Liam says. “People have been saying they voted Leave ‘cos of that bus campaign. What are we going to spend that money on, instead?”

Louis watches as Farage stares pointedly at Liam, looking sickly pale contrasted with the dark wood of the studio wall behind him. “I don't know.”

“And I asked you --” Liam pauses.

“‘Would a portion go to the NHS specifically,’” Louis whispers.

“I asked you if a portion would go to the NHS specifically,” Liam says.

He's like Louis has never seen him before -- flinty-eyed, his tone sharp, his body language dominant. Farage is shrinking in his seat, looking like a guilty weasel, dodging eye contact.

“And I didn't say yes,” Farage says.

“He did,” Louis hisses. “He did, he said, verbatim, _sure, yes_. He lied to your face. Finish him, Payno, get him --”

“You did, actually,” Liam says, his voice ringing out pure and clear. “You said _sure, yes_.”

There's a few beats of silence. Louis’ heart is pounding in his chest. He stares at Liam on the monitor, watching the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw. He feels like he's floating, looking at him.

“Then I misspoke,” Farage says.

“In other words, you lied to me,” Liam says, staring directly at him, unwavering. “You lied to Britain.”

A roar of appreciation goes up in the room. Louis grins, his face and chest growing hot. He's dizzy with delight and pride.

“Liam _fuckin’_ Payne!” Niall crows.

Farage inhales. “If anyone feels they were misled, I apologize.”

“Don't apologize to us,” Mel says. “It's the people of the U.K. who’re going to be looking for answers about this over the next few days.”

“Well, I hope we can provide them,” Farage says with a thin smile.

 

/

 

A whole crowd of them meet him and Mel at the elevator. As soon as the doors open, they're met with a chorus of whoops.

Louis runs to Liam as he gets out; Liam, grinning, clutches him hard around the waist. They stagger around, clinging desperately to each other. The heat between them reaches an immediate pitched intensity. If they weren't surrounded by people, Louis wouldn't be able to stop himself from snogging him.

“You were fantastic, mate, bloody fantastic,” Louis whispers in his ear, while everyone's congratulating Mel.

“No, no, that was all you!” Liam cries, gripping the back of his shirt hard in his hand. “I was just repeating everything you said to me!”

“But you did it so good, you were _so_ good --”

They pull apart and gaze at each other breathlessly, hovering in the moment together, locked on each other's faces.

“Hey,” Niall calls. “Don't hog the Payno.”

Louis looks over at him, and Niall gives him a pointed look, like, _oi, you're in public_. He sheepishly releases Liam, whose hands linger on his hips before he lets him go.

Louis retreats. The crowd closes around a beaming Liam, clapping hum on the back and mocking Farage’s confusion. Louis gazes at him, aching. He's sort of relieved when Paul comes over to disperse them.

“Alright, one victory doesn't mean we get to quit our jobs! We’re wall-to-wall today, get back to it… Fantastic job, though, Liam and Mel.”

“And Louis,” Liam says.

Paul smiles and gives Louis a fond little knock on the shoulder. “And Louis, of course.”

“Oi,” Nick calls from down the hall. They all turn to see him and Harry approaching. “Brexit party at mine tonight. Bring your girlfriends, flatmates, your booze, whatever. We’re mourning the pound, so wear black. And Fincham’s making a Michael Gove piñata.”

Harry is chewing gum and grinning. “I’ve got a joke,” he announces.

“Lay it on us,” says Leigh Anne cheerfully.

“What did Britain say to our trade partners?”

“What?” they all chorus.

“See EU later.”

This is met with laughter and a few boos, mostly from Louis. As everyone’s dispersing, Liam sidles up next to him.

“You going to this party?” he says.

“‘Course,” Louis murmurs.

“Good,” Liam says. “And maybe…”

“... We can finally talk? Yeah.”

“Brilliant.”

Louis smiles at him. Liam smiles back.


	19. Chapter 19

Louis is a superball of pent-up energy for the rest of the day. It's too busy a news day to go out and smoke, so he ends up pacing along an aisle of the bullpen behind Niall, eating an entire sleeve of Oreos over the course of a half hour to satisfy his oral fixation.

“Tommo,” Niall says at one point, stretching an arm behind himself to catch Louis at the waist. “Please. For the love of Christ. Just sit.”

“I can't think when I sit,” Louis complains. “Actually, I can't think at all.”

“Then go home and sleep! You don't need to work twenty hours out of twenty-four.”

“Couldn't sleep if I was dead, lad. Are you going out to shoot? Can I go out with you?”

Niall sighs. “I'm shootin’ some MOS with Leigh, just for the Facebook page. Some little like, ‘d’you regret your vote’ interviews or whatever.”

“I'm coming along,” Louis says. This is mostly because he can't stop looking across the room at Liam, who's working with his head down, fairly obviously trying not to look over at Louis.

They wait outside a Tesco’s for an hour to no avail, then go to an elementary school at pick-up time and loiter out front to grab passing parents. Leigh Anne is good at pulling people in, so Louis wanders off by some trees to go kick around an abandoned football he finds, trying to keep his mind off Liam.

Niall eventually comes to get him, sitting down in the grass.

“Hey,” he says, chuckling. “Sit.”

Louis inhales deeply and sits beside him, then flops onto his back in the grass.

Niall strokes his hair. “So wiggly.”

“I’ve been wiggly since you met me,” Louis murmurs, closing his eyes. Niall’s touch soothes him.

“Before that, I'd figure.”

“Oh yeah.”

They're quiet for a moment.

“So,” Niall says. “Brexit’s over.”

“Aye.”

“Well, keep me updated, will ya?”

“On what?”

Niall laughs. “You know bloody well what…”

Louis lolls his head over to the side and stares out across the car park as kids walk by in their uniforms, their little rucksacks slung over their shoulders.

“You left Leigh,” he murmurs.

“She's sendin’ the video in.” Niall scratches Louis’ scalp. It feels nice. “I was talking about your thing with Liam.”

“I know you were.”

“Don't --” Niall stops himself for a moment. “Just one thing. If this goes arseways between you two, don't let it be for a stupid reason.”

“Oh, Neil…”

“I'm serious. I see how you two look at each other.”

Louis sighs. “Niall --”

“Shh,” Niall says, continuing to pet him. “Don't say anythin’ back. Just absorb it. Alright?”

“Alright,” Louis says softly.

 

/

 

Zayn texts Louis in the late afternoon, right when he's waking up from catching a nap on Paul’s couch.

 _this is shit_ , he says. _todays shit_

 _I know mate,_ Louis says back. He knows this must be especially tough for him.

_this aint the britain i thought i lived in_

_Me neither._

 

/

 

Louis’ stomach is roiling from stress and nerves by the time he gets home. He feels much better once he smokes a bowl, then jumps in a scalding shower. He jerks off, too, because he doesn’t want to get hard as soon as Liam touches him. If Liam touches him.

When he gets out, the cat is crying outside his bathroom door to be petted, and his phone is blowing up with texts. He picks it up and FaceTimes Niall so he can talk while he gets dressed.

“Get over here!” Niall shouts above the din of the party. “It’s great craic already, I don’t know even half these people. Harry’s wasted, he’s already took his shirt off to show everyone his tattoos.”

“Is Liam there?” Louis yells as he staggers around pulling on his jeans. They’re the nice tight black pair that really show off his arse.

There’s the sound of glass shattering in the background. “Huh?”

“Liam! Payno! The lima bean! He there yet?”

“No, not yet! On his way! He texted me asking t’ same thing about you.”

“Fuck,” Louis says, his heart picking up speed again. His palms begin to tingle, and he shakes his fringe out of his eyes. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Got it! Bring liquor! The beer’s goin’ fast!”

He hears several people chorus “Horan!” at Niall in happy recognition -- Niall yells, “You lot made it!” and rings off.

Godfrey comes over and winds his way between Louis’ legs.

“Hullo,” Louis mutters, petting him. “Should I smoke some more weed before I go?”

Godfrey makes a _krr_ sound.

 

/

 

Louis brings a bottle of vodka about two fingers wide, slim enough to tuck into his waistband when he gets into the Uber.

The driver wants to chat with him, asking him what he does and then, having been provided the answer, asking how he feels about Brexit.

“Not great,” he says, and leaves it at that.

They pull up outside Nick’s place, a townhouse he's got all to himself because his aunt owns it and he pays her a nominal amount of rent each month. The party is already raging, with a dozen or so people hanging out on the porch and a few more sitting on the steps, smoking and talking.

Louis recognizes a few of them, so he calls to them as he walks up. They low at him drunkenly. Fiona peeks out of the crowd and stops him, handing him a double shot glass. “Louis! Down this.”

He does. It stings his nose, and he takes her beer from her to wash it down. “Gin?”

“Right you are!” She eyes him. “Well _someone_ looks nice.”

“So d’you,” he replies easily, grinning at her in the dark.

She laughs and swats him. “Go in, it's fun in there.”

Louis walks through the front door and into the dark hall, the bass thumping in ears as he weaves through clusters of people. He pulls the vodka from his jeans and takes a swig.

“Tommo,” Oli yells from the sitting room, and beckons him over.

Louis sidles up next to him and is handed a joint. He alternates between taking puffs on it and taking swigs from the vodka bottle as he watches a crowd of drunk, rowdy blokes from marketing and sales wail on a piñata that's got a printed out Michael Gove face stuck to it.

“Kill him,” one yells, and another bloke starts punching at the piñata with his bare hands. It finally breaks, and everyone in the sitting room cheers, then starts trying to find the scattered candy on the dark and beer-sticky floor.

“Christ, it's only ten,” Louis remarks.

“Eh, we’re mourning,” Oli replies.

Louis, satisfied with the buzz he's got on, slips out of the room and goes to find Liam.

Through the dark hall he finally spots him. They see each other at the same time. 

It's like he's underwater. He can hear the voices and noise and music all around him, he’s aware of the crush of people, but it sounds unreal, distant.

Liam smiles. Louis thinks he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

They meet in front of the staircase.

“Hi,” Louis says. “You drink yet?”

“Nah, I worked split shift and then I came straight here.”

Louis jerks his thumb toward the kitchen. “Let's get you a beer, then.”

Liam puts his hands on Louis’ shoulders as they go, hanging onto him in the crowd.

Louis reaches up and takes Liam’s hand in his, pulling it down over his chest, squeezing it. Liam squeezes back.

Once in the (blessedly empty) kitchen, Louis leads him to the fridge, but Liam hesitates and then slips his other hand down across Louis’ front, then leans in and nuzzles the back of his neck.

Louis arches into his touch, gripping his forearm. “Someone could walk in,” he points out.

“I know,” Liam whispers, his lips moving against Louis’ neck. Heat and tingles spread under his mouth.

“You aren't even tipsy yet.”

He turns around, then, and they're pelvis to pelvis. They look into each other’s eyes, locked in a mutual feverish heat. Louis can't think or speak. He just stares up at him.

“I don't need to be,” Liam says, his voice sweet and tentative.

He strokes Louis’ hair off his forehead, then cups his face in his hand. Louis’ cock is stirring.

“Well, alright,” he says, not too brilliantly. The pot has dampened his verbal abilities.

Liam drinks half a beer very quickly and then leads him away by the hand, over into a dark corner behind the furnace room that no one’s occupying. They're hidden away from everyone; Louis can hear the back door opening and shutting as people come and go.

He squints at Liam in the shadows. Liam seems to be waiting for something.

It dawns on him, then, and he angles his face and presses his lips to Liam’s.

It's as nice as the first time, and the second time. Hot arousal blooms in Louis’ gut and the base of his spine, snaking out through him. Liam slips his arms around Louis’ waist, his watch catching on his shirt and pulling it up, baring his skin to the cool air. Louis moans gratefully against his mouth and starts rubbing a knee against Liam’s hardening cock in his jeans. Liam responds by shoving his hands down the back of Louis’ trousers and clutches at his arse in greedy handfuls.

“I'm so tingly,” Louis pants when they separate to breathe. “You feel that?”

“Yeah,” Liam whispers. “Like all over.”

They kiss again, needily, Louis cupping Liam's face in his hands. Liam digs his nails into the underside of Louis’ arse and Louis shudders and presses closer against him. He loves how solid his body is. Liam feels like the most real thing in the world, realer than brick or stone.

Liam pushes his tongue into Louis’ mouth in a rather polite, tender way; Louis opens for him immediately, yielding. He thinks about the way Liam would fuck him, and his cock pulses.

They snog harder for a while there, unseen, shoved up against the wall and rubbing their thighs against each other’s hard-ons as the chaos of the party carries on around them. Finally Louis reluctantly pulls away, strokes Liam’s cheek and takes him by the hand to lead him upstairs.

They push past a couple doing coke off the newel post at the top (“Sorry, sorry,” Liam says to them, as a dogged and single-minded Louis drags him) and then head into Nick’s guest bedroom and collapse onto the bed atop a pile of people's coats.

Louis rolls onto his back and gazes up at Liam in the dark, half-lidded, seeing him by the sliver of light coming in through the crack in the door. Liam is breathing hard. He gently strokes Louis’ hair back off his face and then leans into to kiss him again.

They start really grinding against each other, their hips moving in unison, in a sort of facsimile of fucking. Sweet pressure builds in Louis’ pelvis under the rub of their two cocks on each other through scratchy denim. He wants to get his hands on Liam’s so bad. His own, too.

The bed creaks underneath them. Liam yanks down the collar of Louis’ shirt and buries his face against his clavicle, sucking at his collarbones and thumbing at his hard nipple. Louis moans, sinking his fingers into Liam’s hair.

He's really hard, now. He realizes this all at once.

“Payno,” he whispers, and Liam looks up, his eyes big and dark and hazy. “I, uh -- I really want you, but let's go home, yeah? Let's go to yours or mine.”

Liam doesn't say anything for a moment and then nods.

“So this is happening,” he says, his voice tentative but throaty. It sends a hot stab of arousal through Louis.

“Only if you want it to,” Louis says. He reaches up and grazes his fingers over Liam’s lips, because they look so pretty all red and swollen like this, and he can't help but touch. “If you aren't ready --”

“I'm ready,” Liam says softly. “It’s just this is totally new to me, is all…”

Louis smiles. “I've got you, Payno.”

They roll off the bed and try to fix themselves up; Louis runs his hands through Liam’s hair to smooth it out, and Liam tugs Louis’ raglan shirt up over his collarbone to hide a hickey he made.

They try to play it cool downstairs, although Louis is so single-minded that he barely registers the people around him as anything more than annoying obstacles. He pats Niall on the back on the way out -- Niall turns to them, registers how sheepish and mussed Liam looks, laughs heartily and gives them a thumbs up.

“Getting out of here?” he says. “Got a horn on from killin’ Farage on live TV? Freaks.”

Liam laughs; Louis gives Niall the finger and messes up his hair.

Perrie, who's standing nearby talking to a boy, turns around when she hears this. “Need a ride?”

“Only if you're going,” Liam says.

She nods, waves to the bloke and starts leading them toward the front door. “I’m dayside tomorrow, and Zayn’s new girlfriend just showed up, so I was about to make a quick exit anyway. And it's better than an Uber, right? Can't snog in an Uber.”

“Cheers,” Louis agrees.

They squeeze past some people and burst out onto the front porch. No one’s out here, except for Nick and Harry, who are kissing. They keep separating to whisper and laugh quietly to each other. Harry’s hand is slung around Nick’s back, holding a Corona.

Louis, looking at them, realizes he doesn't feel anything except faintly wistful.

The pair of them hear Perrie’s keys jingling in her hand as she bounces down the steps, and break apart to turn to them. Nick and Harry look Louis and Liam up and down.

“Wait…” Harry begins, and trails off.

He and Louis exchange a look of mutual guilty realization.

“So it's finally happened, then?” Nick says, grinning. “Use protection.”

“Nick, shut up,” Harry slurs amiably. “You're such a prick.”

Behind him, Liam reaches out tentatively and rubs his knuckle down Louis’ lower back, over the bumps of his spine. Louis reaches behind himself and squeezes Liam’s hand.

“Boys,” Perrie calls up to them as she gets in her car, and beckons. From down the street, Louis can hear the echoing laughter of people going about their Friday nights.

“Good party, Nick,” Louis says drily, and heads down the stairs.

“Night,” Liam says to them.

“Night,” they chorus.

When they reach the cooler at the bottom, Louis fetches a beer and hands it to Liam.

“Finish this in the car,” he suggests, stepping backward and falling tipsily against the passenger side door of Perrie’s Audi.

Liam smiles playfully at him and comes closer. “You don't have to get me drunk.”

“Just loosenin’ you up a bit.”

Liam pops the top off handily with his belt buckle.

“They teach you that in Scouts?”

Liam snorts. “You keep asking if they taught me things to do with alcohol in Scouts. You know I was like, ten.”

“You’re never too young to learn how to party, Payno.”

Liam laughs hard at this and takes a swig of the beer. Louis wraps his hand around the bottom of the bottle and pushes the end up so Liam ends up forced to shotgun it.

After a minute he discards the empty, sending it clanking into the street, and starts hiccuping.

“You're such --” (hiccup) “-- a little shit --”

Louis laughs and opens the door behind him, then pulls Liam into the backseat with him.

“Alright,” Perrie says, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

“Mine,” Louis says, then glances over at Liam in the dark. “Right?”

“Yours sounds good.”

Louis smiles at him, and Liam’s face softens. The bow of his lip has beer foam on it. Louis leans in and kisses it off.

Liam wraps an arm around him, and Louis climbs into his lap, his heart quickening.

“Seatbelt,” Liam murmurs.

“Would you shut it, Dad?” Louis says breathily, rolling his hips so his arse presses against Liam’s cock.

“I'm the one who gets in shit if he flies out the windscreen,” Perrie says.

Liam looks sort of chastened at this reminder that Perrie is there, and glances over at her in the driver's seat, the glow of passing streetlights reflected in his eyes. Louis settles back a little less eagerly in his lap, despite that every nerve in his body is begging to touch him and be touched by him.

“You ever done anythin’ at all before?” Louis whispers. “With a man?”

Liam strokes Louis’ hair like it comforts him to do so. “Not really?”

“What's the most?”

Liam glances over at Perrie again, then after a long moment, says, “Danced with a bloke at a party in uni.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, we sort of, I dunno, grinded a bit…” Liam looks embarrassed. “He tried to go outside with me, and I said oh, no thank you, and went home.”

Louis laughs. “You said no _thank you_?”

Liam pouts. “Don't take the piss!”

“Ah, I'm not. I get it, mate.”

“Men are scary,” Perrie volunteers. “I think lesbians have the right idea, honestly.”

Louis settles his body against the car door, stretching his legs over Liam’s lap, and nuzzles at his close-shaven throat.

Liam tips his head and starts kissing him again. They snog deeper, pressing their warm bodies more insistently against each other, sucking at each other’s lips. Louis can hardly believe the stiff thing pressing against his thigh is really Liam’s cock. He's waited so long.

They're messes when Perrie pulls up to Louis’ flat, kissing desperately, hands under each other’s shirts and pulling at each other’s belts. Louis is so hard he's leaking in his briefs. Liam thigh muscles keep spasming when Louis rubs against his cock.

“Boys,” Perrie says, turning in her seat and snapping her fingers at them. “I'm very happy for you, but I've got to go home and sleep. Go inside, for God’s sake.”

They separate, blinking from the sudden light in their eyes, and thank her, laughing. They climb out of the car together and stand on the sidewalk clinging to each other as she pulls away.

Liam slips his fingers into Louis’ arse pocket; Louis thinks he's just feeling him up, but then he produces his keys.

“After you,” Liam says in his warm voice, his eyes twinkling.

Louis takes the keys and instantly drops them. Liam laughs.

“Shut up,” Louis says, grinning. His head swims with the buzz he’s got on as he ducks to the ground to pick them up. Liam helps him to his feet and guides him up the stairs.

Louis’ mouth dries out as he stands in front of his door, fumbling to get the key in the lock. It’s happening, now, it’s all happening. Months of jerking off and little workday fantasies, months of longing and pining and now he’s standing here, and Liam is gazing at him in the dark, and once they pass the threshold into his flat there’s really no going back then, is there?

It’ll all be different, always, from here on out.

 

 

/

 

They step forward, into the comfort of the dark. Liam’s ears prick at the sound of the door falling shut behind them. Louis reaches behind him and flips the lock.

They snog again, more needy now. Liam presses him to the doorway of his kitchen, a knee pressed to the heat between his legs. He can barely think; he really needs to get off. Louis is moaning against Liam’s mouth, arching into him.

Liam fumbles again with his jeans, tugging them back off Louis’ arse. Louis laughs and reaches up to stroke his hair.

“Bed,” he pants, “bed first --”

They start stumbling backward, tripping over each other as they snog; halfway down the hall Liam gets annoyed at their slow progress and just picks Louis up with a soft groan. Louis happily wraps his legs around Liam and lets him carry him into the bedroom and drop him like a sack of potatoes onto the bed.

“See,” Liam says with a grin, leaning over him and nuzzling at him. Louis drags his lip over the over curve of Liam’s ear, then bites at it; Liam shivers.

“See what,” Louis says throatily.

“See how easy it is to pick you up?”

“Fuck off.”

Liam laughs and unbuttons his shirt, then pulls Louis’ off over his head and tosses it aside. It’s nice to be inside in the cool house; it's a warm night, it was stuffy in Nick’s room, and he's flushed and sweating even though they haven't done anything yet.

They keep kissing like they can't get enough of each other’s mouths, full-on dry humping now. Sharp tingles keep shooting up the base of Liam’s spine, making him squirm with delight. He gleefully grops Louis’ arse, two-handed -- it’s as nice to squeeze as it is to look at.

“I wanna suck big hickies all over you,” Louis murmurs against his lips, his breath hot. “I wanna fuck you up so bad Lou can’t even cover it, an’ you’ve got to go on TV like that.”

“God,” Liam groans, his brain whiting out. “Do it, do whatever you want...”

“Liam Liam Liam,” Louis purrs, running his hands all through his hair, scratching his scalp and making Liam’s cock pulse.

Louis lets his head fall back against the bed, then, his fringe flopping, his throat exposed. He’s got that naughty grin of his on, the one that makes it hard for Liam to think straight.

“What d’you wanna do?”

Liam studies him as he catches his breath. Louis’ blue eyes glitter at him in the darkness. He reaches down and begins to fondle Liam’s cock in his jeans. Liam gasps and his eyelids flutter.

“What d’you wanna do with _this?_ ” Louis says, a coy sharpness emerging in his soft voice.

Liam doesn’t have the words to say what he wants to do. He fights to find them.

“You like my arse?”

Something about the way he says this -- sly, bewitching, knowing -- takes everything out of Liam. He just nods, nuzzling Louis’ neck, thrusting against him. He wants to come so bad.

“You want to fuck me?” Louis whispers in his ear.

Liam sucks in a breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His heart is thudding in his chest. He tips his head slightly and sees Louis’ teeth flashing.

“God,” he moans.

“I’ve got you, Payno.”

Liam kisses over his shoulder, where he’s got a few freckles, maybe from being out in the sun a lot. He kisses over Louis’ beautiful collarbone, his cock leaking in his briefs all the while. Suddenly he’s afraid that he’ll come before he can do anything with it. He wonders if Louis is just as hard. He feels like it, under Liam’s thigh.

Louis slides up on the bed to reach in the nightstand. Liam moves after him, on his hands and knees, and they kiss wetly as Louis gets a bottle of lube.

“D’you want a condom?” Louis finally whispers to him.

“It’s up to you,” Liam says. “I’m not…” He pauses and swallows. “I haven’t been with anyone since Sophia.”

Louis gazes up at him. “Yeah?”

“No one.”

“I know I’m clean, so if you’re alright…”

Liam shivers hard at the idea of feeling nothing but Louis tight around his cock. He nods.

“Hey,” Louis murmurs, drawing the word out. He takes Liam by the wrist and squeezes lube into his hand. Liam clenches his fist, spreading it all over his fingers. “You been thinking about this?”

“Late at night,” Liam admits.

“You think about fucking me?”

Liam’s gut clenches with pleasure. “Yeah,” he says, his voice hitching. “What about… have you…”

Louis lets out a small noise and moves underneath him. “I think about you fuckin' me all the time,” he says, his voice raspy and high.

Liam, unable to stand it anymore, tears Louis’ jeans off him and then his briefs as well. Louis laughs joyfully and helps Liam undress, too.

They lie down together against the sheets. Liam’s trembling with pent-up everything. Louis spreads his legs, then takes him by the wrist again and guides him.

“I got ready for you,” Louis murmurs.

“Really?” Liam says against his throat, his voice low. Louis moans a little, nodding, and grips hard at his hair.

Louis tugs Liam’s boxers the rest of the way off his arse. His cock springs free.

“Fuck,” Louis whines, and the sound of that alone makes Liam want to shove it into him immediately.

Louis’ fingers start rubbing over his head, stroking him, and then trail down the shaft. “Big lad, aren’t you?”

Liam makes a noise that he doesn’t mean to make and presses his forehead to Louis’ bicep, inhaling the musky-sweet smell of him. “I’ll come if you don’t stop talking,” he warns.

“Come whenever you like… we’ve got all night.”

Liam grazes a wet finger over Louis’ arsehole. Louis shuts his fists on Liam’s hair, nearly hard enough to pull it out of his head, and gives a shuddering gasp. Liam is electrified by this. The hairs on his arms and neck stand up.

“Louis, Louis,” he whispers, lying down over him, now rubbing his finger where he had grazed it. “What’re you gonna do when I’m in?”

“Sorry,” Louis says, raggedly. “God, you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“How long?”

“Ages.”

He really wants to put a finger in Louis, but he’s scared; he hesitates and hesitates, and then just slides it in. It’s easier than he thinks. It scares him even worse, just how easy it is.

It isn’t so scary in the dark, though. Nothing is. He can say and do so much more in the dark.

Louis moans when he does, and tips his head back. He’s beautiful underneath him in the little spill of moonlight from the window, his lips wet, his catlike eyes and high cheekbones sculpted by the low milky light. Liam could look at him for hours.

“Do two," he breathes.

Liam does so eagerly, and Louis’ whole body changes underneath him. He writhes and arches his back on the bed.

“God, God, Liam.”

“Louis,” Liam moans.

“God, I want your cock so bad.”

“Oh, Louis, Jesus.”

He slides another in; Louis exhales. He’s so hot and tight around Liam’s fingers; he can't imagine sticking his cock in there.

Liam presses another hand to the dip of Louis’ little waist and kisses down his chest to his stomach; Louis sighs with pleasure.

“What's this?” Liam murmurs, pressing his finger to a round scar over Louis’ navel.

Louis lets out a laugh. “Had me belly button pierced for a bit...”

“That's hot,” Liam says, rubbing harder at Louis. Louis moans and bears down on his hand.

“You like that?” he teases, his breath catching in his chest. “You like me bein' Donny trash?"

"I like everything you do," Liam murmurs to him.

A grin spreads Louis' lips. "Like this?" he says, and rolls his hips expertly.

Liam, entirely entranced, leans down and buries his face in Louis’ stomach, biting at the scar. Louis laughs.

He pushes a third and fourth finger into him, and Louis makes a little pained noise, but nods him on and wraps his arms around Liam’s shoulders. Liam kisses up his neck and jaw, trying not to get any harder as he thrusts his hips against Louis while fucking him with his hand.

Liam feels Louis leaking against his stomach. He whispers to him, “I want to touch you,” and Louis grips his shoulders tighter.

“I want to come with you in me,” he says, his eyes flicking to Liam’s face.

“Okay,” Liam agrees immediately. He fingers Louis harder, more eagerly, and finally Louis sits up on the bed and manhandles Liam, shoving him in the chest so he falls back in a sitting position on the bed. Then he climbs onto his lap, and now they’re eye to eye.

Liam is pliable for all of this, completely willing. He really loves how Louis knows exactly what he wants and has no shyness in demanding it.

Louis wraps a hand around his base, and, looking straight into his eyes, maneuvers Liam inside him.

“Fuck,” Liam groans, as soon as his terribly oversensitive cock begins to succumb to the heat and pressure of Louis’ body.

Louis kisses him hard, moaning as he takes him. He grips Liam by the hair again.

“You’re so tight, you’re so --”

Louis spreads his legs and, with a soft sigh, begins to move on Liam. It’s excruciating, it’s wonderful. Liam cries out and wraps an arm around his waist, sinking his nails into the flesh of Louis’ arse.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you Payno?” Louis murmurs to him, his breath catching every time he gets Liam deep.

“You’re rotten,” Liam gasps as his cock pulses unbearably. He didn’t know sex could be like this. He feels like he could break into pieces and float away at any moment, but he’s also never felt more inside his body or more primal. He’d lick Louis’ armpits if Louis wanted.

They intertwine closer and closer, breathing heavily. Liam keeps his hands wrapped around Louis’ waist. He slips one down below, his heart pounding, and drags the tip of his finger up the very base of his cock to feel where he disappears into Louis.

Louis inhales at the added sensation of his wandering finger. “God,” he moans, his voice rising and catching on a whine. Liam clenches his jaw, his cock throbbing.

“Where should I come?” he breathes.

“In me, in me…”

Louis begins to rock his hips harder, grinding down, and Liam responds in kind, which makes Louis groan a bunch of swears into his shoulder and then bite him on it, a perfect circle, while dragging his nails painfully up Liam’s back. It feels blissful. Liam trembles in feverish delight.

In his sex-addled brain wants nothing but Louis, forever, nothing but him. He never wants to lose his erection or be made to leave the hot clutch of Louis’ body.

They fall back against the bed together, fucking madly now, Liam thrusting like he’s trying to bury himself in Louis. Louis writhes on him, scratching his back harder and letting out sobbing little moans and cries of ecstasy that are punctuated by him going, “God, yeah, fuck, yeah, _God_ ,” as the mattress squeaks in protest underneath them.

Liam comes way before he means to, while he’s sucking a hickey underneath Louis’ nipple, on his ribs. He feels the point of no return dawning on him and clutches at Louis tighter, wrapping his arms around him and kissing at his neck with careless teeth, and then groans in his ear as he comes inside him.

Louis lets out a satisfied sigh, even though he’s still hard. “Oh, Liam…”

“Sorry,” Liam murmurs. “I didn’t mean to --”

“No, no,” Louis says in his sweet voice. “You did good.”

He strokes Liam’s hair.

“My shoulder hurts,” Liam says in a daze.

“Sorry, I think I bit down on it.”

“Oh, right…”

He slides out of Louis, who winces, and then slides down on the bed so he can address his rock-hard, weeping cock.

“I can take care of myself, Payno,” Louis murmurs.

“Noo, no,” Liam says, and he runs his fingers along the shaft in curiosity. It isn’t really different than touching his own, except for the fact that it’s Louis’, which fills him with a frantic sort of desire. “I want, um.”

He really wants to put it in his mouth, is the thing, but that’s hard to express. He bends over and flicks his tongue over the head.

Louis groans and moves spasmodically underneath him. “Fuck. You do?”

“Do you not want it?”

“Shit,” Louis says, chuckling low in his throat. “I’d love that. I just didn’t expect it.”

Liam, curious and wanting to make Louis happy, pulls his foreskin back, then takes the head in his mouth and sucks, moving his tongue deftly over it. He tastes salty, like precome.

“Oh, God,” Louis exclaims passionately.

“I can’t be _that_ good at this,” he says, looking up at him and laughing.

“It’s just I’m so hard,” Louis says, sounding sort of pathetic. “And you look so good down there. God, that mouth. Get on with it.”

“Be patient,” Liam says cheekily, then drags his tongue very slowly up Louis’ shaft.

Louis sucks in air and reaches down to get his own hands on himself. Liam bats them away and takes half his cock into his mouth all at once.

His eyes start watering right away, and it hurts his throat, but Louis is squirming beautifully underneath him and gripping at the sheets. Liam’s spent cock pulses as he works Louis over, wanting so badly to fuck him again despite its own softness. He starts knuckling at Louis’ taint, because someone did that to him once while they blew him, and it felt so good he saw stars.

Louis grabs him by the other wrist and pulls his hand up to his mouth, then starts sucking on his fingers. Liam’s gut clenches with pleasure and he takes Louis deeper, gagging on him a bit, drool running over his lip and down his chin. Liam can hear him sighing and keening, the sound muffled. He mouths at Louis’ balls, and Louis goes “Oh, oh,” in a broken, beautiful way.

He comes quickly. Liam chokes out of surprise -- in all his years of coming, he had no idea it tasted like this -- but then he looks up at Louis and sees the wonderful flush in his face and the brightness of his eyes, and he swallows, because he thinks it'll make him happy.

Louis lights up. “Liam,” he sighs.

Liam leans in and snogs him hard, sucking at his bottom lip and making him taste himself. Louis giggles and snogs him back, wrapping his legs around him, wiping come off his chin.

They lie there and kiss for ages, happy to do that and nothing else. Kissing Louis makes some warm thing behind Liam’s ribs stir. He doesn't want to stop. Everything is right here in his arms; the world’s stopped turning, his brain has gone quiet. There isn’t anything but Louis’ little noises and the way he smells, the smooth soft planes of his body and the sharp scratch of his stubble.

His cock starts pulsing again after a while. He rubs at it idly while they snog, and then Louis reaches a hand down there and starts rubbing at it, too.

Liam props himself on an elbow and gazes at him.

“What,” Louis murmurs.

“Nothing,” Liam says, a little hoarsely. “I like looking at you.”

A little smile pulls Louis’ lips up and makes Liam's heart flutter. He leans in and kisses him more deeply, slipping his tongue in.

“Get hard again,” Louis tells him, drawing back very slightly, running his teeth up over Liam’s bottom lip in a way that makes him melt. “I want you back in me.”

“I wanna be back in you,” Liam says, and he pushes Louis’ hand away so he can stroke himself more easily. He marvels at the sort of things he's saying; this is stuff he never says out loud.

“What helps?”

“Dirty talk.”

“Ooh,” Louis crows, his voice cracking again, “I had a feeling you weren’t all vanilla.”

“Tommo,” Liam breathes, ignoring a cramp in his hand as he thickens between his fingers, “c’mon.”

“Dirty talk,” Louis repeats softly. Liam really likes how he sounds during sex. The pitch of his voice is all over the place. “How d’you want to do it this time?”

“Dunno…”

“‘Cos…” He smiles wickedly. “I’d love you to do me from behind.”

Liam groans, stroking himself faster.

“You want that? Wanna climb on top o' me, ram that nice cock in me, pull me hair?"

Liam closes his eyes, his hand moving back and forth, imagining it.

“Yeah, I want that,” he murmurs.

“Good,” Louis hiccups, his chest filling with air and then falling.

Liam kisses him more, all over his neck and collarbone and nipples, and then presses his face to the underside of Louis’ jaw, nose right at his hairline. Louis wraps an arm around him, stroking his shoulder and his scratched-up back. Between their bodies, Liam continues to wank, feeling the lower-gut stabs of arousal increase.

“I’ve ‘ad this fantasy,” Louis rasps in his ear, “of you leavin’ the desk during my show, an’ like -- coming in the control room, tearing me headphones off, pushing me down on the floor. Pinnin’ both me wrists in one hand and fucking me --”

The words shoot straight to Liam’s cock. “Fuck,” he gasps, even though he can’t imagine himself doing that. He likes that Louis has.

“Get hard,” Louis tells him, and bites his lip again.

Liam slides an arm underneath him, pressed hard between the heat of his slim body and the bed, and gropes at his bottom some more as he pulls at himself with more languorous motions. Louis chuckles low in his throat and kisses Liam’s neck.

“You really do like my arse...”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Louis laughs.

Half a minute later, Liam comes to the realization that he’s stiff enough to go another round and lets his hand off himself, inhaling sharply.

Louis’ practiced fingers find his shaft. He caresses Liam, sending jolts of pleasure up his spine, and then rolls over on the bed and presents him his arse.

“Louis,” Liam sighs in appreciation at the sight of this.

“ _Hurry_ ,” Louis whines.

Liam doesn't need to be told twice. He crawls over and gets behind him, rubbing his fingers over Louis’ wet arsehole, wanting to see how he’ll react.

The muscles in Louis’ back tense and bunch beautifully as he leans down with his face in his forearms and lets out a passionate groan.

“Fucker,” he swears.

“So he can tease, but he can’t take it?”

“Payno, please, please please --”

Liam fists his hand in Louis’ hair, which is as mussed as his own and has a bit of dried come in it, and pulls a little as he guides his cock back into Louis.

Louis lets out a choked moan. Liam leans over and kisses his back as he thrusts into him; his hips move tenderly. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He likes just moving in and out of him, breathing at the same tempo, feeling the rhythm of his body.

“Harder,” Louis breathes after a while, his voice muffled by his arms.

So Liam fucks him harder, then, and Louis moves with him, biting at his knuckles and crying out when he takes Liam especially deep. After a few minutes Louis motions to be let up and then flips Liam onto his back with his typical bravura. Liam lies there, dazed, looking up at him reverently.

“Knees up,” Louis murmurs, wiping at his eyes.

Liam lifts his head. “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah, me eyes watered a bit. Haven’t been fucked in a while.” Louis reaches over and strokes his hair back off his forehead. “Knees up and I’ll ride you.”

Liam obliges. Louis settles back onto his cock -- the tight heat is a little more bearable now, but still overwhelming, and Liam grips at the bed and looks up at the ceiling, swearing in pained pleasure -- and leans his lower back against Liam’s thighs, then starts to roll his hips.

Liam stares at him in slack-jawed amazement; Louis flashes a grin at him, takes him by the hands, and places them on his thighs. Liam squeezes them. He does have very nice thighs; he’s got nice everything. Liam wants to fuck him ‘til the sun comes up.

“You look good up there,” he says. His voice is nearly spent, just a bassy rumble in his chest. He clears his throat.

Louis smiles at him, slowing his pace a little, really drawing him in deep.

“You look good down there,” he says sweetly.

His inner muscles clench around Liam’s cock; Liam’s eyes roll up in his head and he groans with gratification. Louis leans back against his legs and closes his eyes, gyrating to keep Liam bouncing up into him. Liam gazes at him, at the spread of his ribs and the dip of his waist. The shadowy room gives his fair skin a lovely luminescent quality. His tattoos look blue-black.

Liam’s eyes travel down his treasure trail to the darkness of the hair above his cock, which is starting to get hard again.

“Does it really feel that good?” Liam says with curiosity. “Having someone in you?”

Eyes still closed, Louis nods hard. A muscle in his jaw flickers, and his lips part as he lets out a soft sigh. Liam tries to move in perfect unison with him -- it feels so good when he manages it.

“You feel really good, in particular,” Louis murmurs.

“Yeah?” Liam says. This makes his chest and cheeks get hot for reasons he isn’t quite sure of.

“Yeah… we fit good.”

They both go quiet, then, except for soft moans and grunts. Liam’s breath comes slower. Louis’ pace is more slow, almost romantic now. They gaze at each other, Louis’ eyes half-lidded.

Liam slips a hand off Louis’ thigh and starts stroking his cock; Louis nods hard and bounces harder on him. Finally, they get frustrated by this, and it’s Liam’s turn to flip Louis over onto his back and wrap an arm around his shoulders, jerking him off with his other hand. Louis grabs him around the neck and runs his thumbs up the back of it, ruffling his hair against the grain.

They end up coming around the same time -- Louis first, digging his nails into Liam’s arse, coming all over his stomach and hand and moaning his name. Liam is done in by all this and goes right after him. He swears Louis gets tighter around him right as he’s rocked by aftershocks, and he makes a groaning whimper against his throat. His brain stops working for a good ten seconds. He thinks he says Louis’ name a few times, but he’s too fucked to even remember.

“God,” Louis pants as Liam rolls off him, onto his side. “God, shit.”

Liam looks over at the digital alarm clock on the table. Thin green numbers float in his vision: 1:21 a.m. It’s laughable to him that the minutes have been marching on, that the world hasn’t remained suspended this entire time.

They reach for each other, and Louis sort of falls into his arms, resting his face against Liam’s chest and heaving a big exhale. Liam strokes his hair. His thoughts are still taking a long time to develop; he waits for them to form. He kisses Louis’ head, in the meantime.

“Hang on,” Louis murmurs. “I need to wee. If I don’t go now I’ll fall asleep.”

“Go, go,” Liam says, and nudges him, but he’s boneless and inert. He nudges him harder.

“Alright,” Louis huffs. “Fine.” He rolls to the end of the bed, makes like he’s going to get up, gets sort of half to his feet and then collapses on the floor.

Liam immediately goes over to look. “Tommo?”

Louis is sitting on the ground, laughing.

“Me thighs gave out,” he says, sounding charmed and amazed. “I came so hard me thighs stopped working.”

Liam stares at him in concern. “Temporarily?”

“No, you broke me forever, lad,” jokes Louis as he staggers to his feet.

Liam watches him walk away to the toilet, leering a bit at the crescent-shaped nail marks all over his peachy round arse.

He doesn’t mean to perch there on the edge of the bed, waiting for Louis to get back, but he finds himself doing so. Louis laughs when he reappears and sees him like that. He tells him he should probably wee, too, or at least wash the come off himself, so Liam lets himself be led over to the loo.

While he has a slash, Louis wets a flannel, and then when Liam turns around, starts wiping off his thighs and cock. They stand there, having a quiet moment of intimacy in the blue early morning light of the bathroom. Liam catches a glimpse at himself in the mirror; he’s a mess, but a funny one. He looks like a werewolf that's just turned back into a man.

“We didn’t go too fast tonight, did we?” Louis murmurs, rubbing at a stubbornly dried fleck of come on Liam’s belly.

He really does seem concerned about this, in a vulnerable, boyish way. Like he's worried he's been bad, or something.

“Hey,” Liam reassures him. “I can keep up with you, alright?”

He wants to, is what he doesn't add. He wants to meet Louis where he's at, always.

Louis looks up. He’s really lovely, with his hair askew and his cheeks and mouth all red. Liam leans down for another kiss.

They stumble backward through the bedroom and crash down on the bed together, tugging the sheets over themselves, bumping their limbs off each other amiably as they settle in.

Liam’s first thought is to spoon, but Louis seems to want to face him, so he wraps his arms around him like he did before and holds him close to his chest, their legs entwined. Louis makes a happy humming sound.

Liam impulsively kisses him on the head again. He has an inkling this might be too romantic and loving, maybe, but his thoughts are still taking a while to happen, so he might as well do what he likes in the meantime.

But before they can even catch up with him, his brain starts buzzing with exhaustion, and his body sinks pleasantly into the memory foam. His eyelids feel hot and keep trying to shut.

“The cat usually sleeps up here,” Louis says, in that way of his where he chatters to fill silence. “I think we scared him away... You falling asleep, Payno?”

“No,” Liam lies badly.

“Go to sleep,” Louis whispers. “It’s alright. I’ll get you up in the morning.”

Liam gratefully closes his eyes. Louis rolls over so they’re spooning and presses into him, cuddling close. Liam wraps an arm around him and nuzzles into his warmth.

Louis reaches up and trails his fingers over Liam’s, then laces them together.

Liam’s breath catches. He presses his lips to the back of Louis’ neck.


	20. Chapter 20

Louis doesn't get him up in the morning, though. He wakes up with a small hangover and Liam’s arms no longer around him; he has a stab of fear when he realizes this, but then hears him moving around in the loo.

Liam comes out after a moment, smiling cheerfully. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” Louis mumbles, stretching his arms out. Liam, clean and freshly shaved, comes over and collapses on top of him.

Louis sighs with comfort. He likes being pinned under Liam’s solid weight.

“I thought I might wake you showering,” Liam says. “I was singing.”

“You didn't,” Louis says, stroking his hair. “Singing what?”

“I don't actually remember. Something I heard on the radio.”

“You used my razor,” Louis points out, smiling.

Liam laughs; it vibrates his whole chest, and Louis feels it in his own. “Sorry… I had to shave for the show. So I think you can claim it back in tax. Work expenses.”

“Good, lad, I’m really strapped for that eighty cents.”

 

/

 

Liam makes breakfast. Louis sits at the island and watches him, sipping tea with the cat on his shoulder, calling to him with the locations of his pots and pans and things.

“D’you have like, a handheld juicer?” Liam says.

He turns to Louis expectantly. He’s wearing only his briefs and looks especially nice in the light of the morning, slender but solidly muscular, and covered in love bites from the neck down. He’s got a few lingering nail marks down his back, and one round bite mark on his shoulder. “Y’know, like the…” He gestures like he's squeezing something.

Louis blinks at him. “No.”

“Aww. Alright.”

“What's up, Gordon Ramsay?”

Liam laughs. “Well, you've got oranges in the fridge,” he says.

“Oh, those’ve been in there for ages, mate, don't eat those. They're probably radioactive.”

“Well, you want eggs? A crepe? What's your wildest fantasy, right now?”

Louis looks at the outline of Liam’s cock underneath thin black fabric. He thinks about having it in his mouth, and saliva rushes in.

“Eggs are fantastic,” he says.

As Liam moves around the kitchen, Louis starts sinking into a depressive funk. He knows now for sure that he fancies Liam something awful, that he's got real feelings for him. And Liam likes him enough at the very least to swallow a mouthful of his come, despite never even having touched a willy before.

But now he’s thinking about Liam's career, and all the things he could possibly go on to do, and how badly Liam might resent him if they go to the professionally damaging trouble of getting together and then they break up.

It wasn’t quite as bad with Harry, because they had the excuse of being especially young and stupid, and they could reasonably avoid each other for a while and only talk in meetings. He and Liam, on the other hand, have spent the last six months becoming symbiotic at work, growing around each other like ivy. Not being able to talk frankly to him would be like cutting off his own hand at the wrist.

“How d’you like them?”

Louis looks up. Liam is holding two eggs in his hand like Baoding balls.

“Scrambled?”

“Ooh, I'm good at that,” Liam says cheerfully, and turns back to the stove.

Louis puts his head down on the island, startling Godfrey into abandoning him. He tries to make his heart shut up.

It doesn’t. So he slips off the stool and goes up behind Liam, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his face against his bicep.

Liam ruffles his hair. “Watch it, I'll burn your eggs,” he murmurs.

“Ahh, I don’t mind.”

“But then I can't impress you with how good I am at eggs.”

“I promise I’ll pretend to be impressed anyway. Mmm, Payno, look how marvelously burned these are, you genius.”

Liam laughs. “We’ll say they’re blackened. Cajun-style.”

“What’s that thing the Scots say their rolls are?”

“Right -- well-fired. These are some _well-fired_ eggs.”

Louis chuckles, nuzzling him. Liam is still stirring the eggs, anyway, despite that he's now stroking Louis’ forearm, so they don’t seem to be in any danger.

“Can we talk?” Liam says, very softly, like Louis is a butterfly he’s trying not to startle.

“Aye, yeah.”

Liam turns the stove off and turns around. He gives Louis that questioning look of his.

Louis inhales with difficulty. “Wassup?”

“What are we doing?”

Louis smiles at him. “Making breakfast?”

“Lou-is,” Liam sings in an I’m-not-joking voice.

“Okay. Alright. Look…” He looks down and runs a hand through his hair. “I really want -- I really properly like you. I’m just…”

Liam looks lost. “Just what?”

“I mean, what, you want to date me?” Louis says, looking him square in the eye. “You want a boyfriend?”

Liam rubs his hand over his face. "Um. I was sort of hoping you'd be the one to, y'know. I just -- this is so -- I mean, I want --"

"What?"

"I dunno!"

“You want to do this whole -- everyone at work’s going to know, you’ve got to tell your family, your friends, you can’t hold hands in public without bein’ afraid, you’ve got to --”

Liam squeezes his bicep. “Hang on. Hang on, can we talk about, like, the two of us? Not everyone else?”

“That doesn’t exist, Liam! There’s no way to do this that ain’t extremely public, ‘cos as soon as it gets out at work, that’s it!”

“But I’m not thinking about all that right now,” Liam says, and drops his hands. “I’m only thinking about you. Like, I think I want to be with you --”

“You _think_ ,” Louis says, hurt, his voice going higher than he’d like it to.

“No, I do, I’m -- I’ve been thinking about you for months!” Liam exclaims. He sounds frustrated. “If I don't have the exact words for it, or I don't have a perfect picture of it, I think that's fair, I'm -- it's new territory, yeah!”

Louis’ heart is going fast; his mouth is dry. The last thing he wants to do is to poke holes in this. But all the potential pain down the road is like a cinder block on his chest.

“I want you to know it did hurt Harry’s career, that he was with me,” he says. “Simon doesn’t care so much that he’s gay, but he hates distractions, and he hates anything he can’t control. There’s things that just --”

“Louis --”

“No, let me finish,” Louis says, and he backs away and circles around the island, putting it between them. It’s hard to think when he has to look at him or touch him. “Being with me would be really difficult. For a lot of reasons. And I can’t put you through all that if you aren’t totally sure.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be as hard as you think,” Liam says. “Maybe they all already suspect, at work.”

“Don't be dense on purpose.”

“I’m not being dense at all!”

Louis feels it happening, he feels himself walling up. He tenses his shoulders and glances up at Liam, who looks totally at sea. The eggs have been abandoned.

“And we can’t -- we’re such good work partners,” Louis says miserably. “You can’t tell me we aren’t. What if somethin’ happens? What if we break up? Or what if we just have a fight? And the next day, it’s like -- y’know, the show suffers. And I told you already Simon’s worried about your numbers, he’s got a built-in excuse to let you go if this pisses ‘im off. And a built-in reason to never listen to me when I defend you --”

“Louis,” Liam begs. “Please, you’re moving so fast, I can’t even think. “

“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Louis says, and he leans his elbows on the island. “It’s _going_ to move fast. As soon as we tell human resources, which we’ve got to do to protect me from gettin’ fired -- and we’ve also got to lie to them that we haven’t had sex yet -- it’s going to be across the entire station. Everyone’ll know.”

“Then they know!”

“Liam, you’ve got no idea,” Louis murmurs. “They’ll treat you differently. I know you. You want everything to be normal and nice.”

“No, don’t tell me what I want.” He looks actually upset, now. “You don’t always know best. Give me some credit.”

“You don't know what it feels like. You might not be ready for that.”

“But if that’s what we have to do, then I’ll do it.”

“And, like -- you've just got out of a long relationship --”

“It's been half a year!”

“And you've told me you aren't good at being alone --”

“Yeah, well, both those things are true about you, too!”

“Look --”

“Why let this happen if you were just going to push me away?” Liam says, looking stricken.

“‘Cos I wanted you too much, I couldn't fuckin’ stand it anymore, Liam! Clearly neither of us could, but that doesn't mean things aren't complicated! I'm not pushing you away, I'm trying to think clearly!”

There's a heavy silence.

“Don’t rush it,” Louis says. A lump is developing in his throat. “Don’t rush yourself. Really think. ‘Cos I’m getting too old for anythin’ halfarsed.”

“Louis…”

“No, I mean it,” he says, and finishes his tea, ashamedly not looking at Liam’s sweet, beseeching face. “It’s your career, it’s your life.”

Liam leans down with his face in his hands. “Do you not _want_ me?” he says, sounding like he's in pain.

It's a cattle prod to Louis’ heart. “ _God_ , no, Liam, no, that isn’t it at all! You've got it like, absolutely backwards --”

Liam straightens up, jaw tight, and goes out in the hall toward the bedroom. Louis sits frozen on the barstool.

He comes back out a few minutes later, dressed in last night’s clothes.

“I’m gonna go,” he says. “Since I've got a lot of things backwards, apparently.”

“Liam --”

“What would I have to do to prove to you that I can take some heat?” Liam says. “That I haven’t already done. I haven’t proved to you yet that I’m tough?”

“I know you’re tough,” Louis says in a soft voice. “It’s just I’m getting on thirty years old, I can't do this if you're going to, like, turn around and --”

“Turn around and what?”

Decide you don't want all this trouble, that all you ever wanted is Ginger and the cocker spaniel.

Louis’ mouth is dry. He doesn't say any of that; he's superstitious that saying it might make it come true. And it’s unfair to Liam, who he knows doesn’t want to hurt him, who really does make him feel safe. None of it’s fair or right. He can’t wrap his head around why he’s saying the things he’s saying. They just keep pouring out of him.

“I’ll see you at work,” Liam mutters, and then he’s gone out the door.

Louis goes over to the sink. “ _Fuck_ ,” he yells, and then tosses a pan in, trembling with frustration. “Fuck you,” he says to the pan. “You fuckin’ idiot.”

 

/

 

Liam left mainly because he was afraid he was going to cry. He can’t remember the last time he cried in front of someone without meaning to. Maybe when Sophia left him.

What Louis said isn’t totally baseless. He does lock up with fear when he thinks about bringing a man home to his parents. It does terrify him to imagine everyone at work knowing. Or being shouted at in the street for holding hands. These aren't things he’d ever imagined for himself, before.

But the thought of Louis is like a hot air balloon inside him, filling him, crushing everything else. Thinking about him is painful ecstasy, and it’s all he wants to do. Liam doesn't have any room in his head to realistically fantasize about how he'd go about a relationship with Louis when he can barely remember to breathe.

He walks to work, because it's only a few blocks from Louis’ place. He goes in through the back, locks himself in the dressing room and cries. Not a lot, but he lets a few tears loose in a sort of self-pitying way. Then he sits there for a while, trying to rub out the wrinkles on the thighs of his twice-worn trousers.

It dawns on him that everything he's wearing smells like Louis, especially his shirt. He clears his throat and gets up to change.

 

/

 

Nothing feels good to Louis. He tries to go for a walk and listen to music, but it's hopeless. He ends up yanking his earbuds out and storming home. It's a lovely summer day, which just magnifies his misery.

He knows he hurt Liam, and it's a knife in his chest as he walks around, aching from where Liam was inside him last night, unable to think about anything but him and his sad eyes. It’s like he’s been flayed alive and is walking around with his tendons flapping in the breeze. But the thing is, he believes wholeheartedly that nothing he said was wrong.

“It's like you try to be the grown-up for once,” Louis tells Godfrey when he gets back in, tossing his earbuds onto the floor, “‘cos you're nearly thirty fucking years old, and it blows up on you.”

Godfrey twitches his tail and rubs against Louis’ legs.

He wants to talk to Niall about this, but he knows Niall probably isn't going to get it and definitely is going to have a big Irish fit, so he watches some terrible daytime telly before he has to get ready for work.

The first program he flips to is a cooking show. They briefly mention Brexit while they’re putting together a lasagne, and Louis says “Bloody fuck” out loud, because with everything that's gone on today and last night, it had gone totally out of his head.

For a heartbeat he wants to grab his phone and text Liam, _Lol i just forgot about brexit_ , but then he remembers. He sighs in frustration and shoves his phone under a sofa cushion where he can't touch it.


	21. Chapter 21

Work is exactly as bad as Louis expects it to be.

He stands outside for a while when he first gets there, chainsmoking and putting off going in for as long as he can. Harry walks up, looking distracted.

“Hey,” Louis chirps at him. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” Harry says breezily.

“No hangover?”

“Actually, I feel fantastic. How about you?”

“Been better.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve done something fairly stupid,” Louis says, ashing his cigarette.

“I think the entire country’s just done something fairly stupid,” Harry jokes. Louis laughs. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nah, nah,” Louis says, and inhales. “Later, maybe.”

Liam actually does a fairly good job avoiding him for most of the day, which ends up feeling a hundred times worse than seeing him would. Louis starts to think, rather self-pityingly, that maybe Liam is coming to the conclusion that he doesn’t fancy Louis that much after all, or at least not enough to deal with his crazy bullshit.

Even though this idea doesn’t square with how Liam acts toward him or anything he’s ever said, and even though it makes his entire chest contract in grief, it at least allows him to concentrate on his work instead of floating around the newsroom in a hopeful, besotted daze. So he lets himself think it.

Niall comes up to him in the editing bay around half four, squeezing him by the bicep. “Hey,” he whispers.

Louis stops typing and straightens up. “What?”

“What happened last night? Why’s Liam walking around lookin’ like someone's kicked him? I asked him how his day was and I thought he was about to start cryin’.”

Louis looks around. It doesn’t seem like anyone’s about to bother them in here, so he lets out a sigh and looks back down at his computer.

“We went to bed.”

“Right… and?”

“And…” Louis swallows. “It was, I dunno, properly intense. Like, really --”

“Good, though?”

“Yeah. Good.” The earth moved and cracked open under them. “Good. Anyway, this morning I was like, look, if you want this to be something, it’s going to be a lot to deal with, so think hard about it, and he had a strop and I had a strop, and then he left.”

Niall blinks at him. “Wow. Great details. Feel like I was there.”

“Fuck off, ‘course we said more than that, I was giving you the headlines.”

“Tommo, what's this Elizabethan parlor shit with you two? You’ve been arse over tits for this kid since you met him, you get on great with him, and then he gets his courage up t’ kiss you and you blow him off, then you fuck him and you tell him to hit the road? The fuck are you even _doin’_ , lad?”

“I didn’t tell him to hit the road! You don’t get -- I’m holding this fuckin’ show together, I’m holding his entire future here at ITV in my own fuckin’ _‘ands_ , so if I think we shouldn’t rush into anything --”

Niall peels him away from the computer and takes him by the shoulders. “Louis, he’s a grown man… c’mon, c’mon, you don’t have t’ protect everyone, you don’t have t’ fall on your sword. Where’s that firecracker who does what he likes, who isn’t afraid of anythin’? Where’s the Tommo?”

“I can’t,” Louis exclaims, “I can’t, I can’t right now! I just want to be able to fuckin’ breathe!”

“Hey, c’mere,” Niall says kindly, and pulls him in for a hug. “Look, you’ve both been working like crazy lately, you’re not gettin’ much sleep. Give it a little time and maybe it’ll make more sense. Alright?”

“Alright,” Louis says in exhausted relief.

Niall gives the back of his neck a brotherly squeeze.

 

/

 

Oli notices, too.

Louis lingers in the studio to double-check a script with Liam. They’re very nice, very polite. Liam can’t pronounce Aberystwyth, and Louis coaches him through it.

“Thanks,” Liam says, once he’s finally got it right. His dark eyes flick up at Louis, searching him.

“No problem, Payno,” Louis says. He pats the desk and walks away.

Oli follows him out.

“You two in a fight?” he says, once they’re safely backstage.

Louis hands him a print-out of Steadicam instructions. “Can you get this to Calvin? Nah, why would we be in a fight?”

Oli takes it and shrugs. “I dunno, seemed tense.”

“I thought that was totally normal,” Louis says, anxiety creeping up the back of his neck. He suddenly feels hyper-aware of all the places Liam kissed him last night, the constellation of hickies under his t-shirt, the soreness inside him. It feels like Oli can see all of it.

“Normal for most people. It's just you're usually like, giggling and rolling around on the floor together.”

Louis shrugs. “Everyone’s tired today, mate.”

“Right,” Oli says, and leaves him be.

 

/

 

Louis spends all of Saturday jerking off, getting high, lying on the floor and listening to records. He keeps wanting to just call Liam and telling him sorry for jumping down his throat, sorry for rushing him. He's not sure why he doesn't. He feels sort of paralyzed. He's just terrified that Liam’s going to say, “No, I think you're right, this is more trouble than it's worth, isn't it?” and then it'll all be over before it began, his heart’ll be broken even though he's done in his power to avoid that.

He should have realized that he was already done for long before they slept together. He was done for when he walked into that stupid restaurant. He was done for when Simon showed him Liam’s smiley headshot.

So Louis lays there blowing smoke at the ceiling fan all day and feeling completely rotten. He hopes Liam will rescue him, somehow, just ring him up and tell him he's wrong about everything and he's being an idiot, that they'll figure out how to make it work.

But he doesn't call, or text, or anything else. Louis checks Snapchat obsessively to distract himself, tapping through everyone's stories (Harry has gone out to brunch with some of his posh newspaper friends, Oli and Calvin are at a football match without him, his friend Bill is hiking in New Zealand. He’s jealous of absolutely everyone in the world who isn't lying on a floor stoned, moping and pining).

Louis watches as the hourglass emoji appears next to Liam’s name in his replies, and then as their streak vanishes. He wonders if Liam will notice.

He goes to Instagram and dives way back into Liam’s, looking at old happy photos of him and Sophia for whatever ridiculous, self-flagellating reason.

After he tires of this, he starts refreshing Facebook messenger to see if Liam has logged on. Last active 5 hours ago.

“What the fuck are you out doin’ on a Saturday,” Louis mutters, and then illogically finds himself starting to worry, because what if Liam is dead in a ditch somewhere and he’s sitting here being bitchy about it?

He texts Niall. _Have you heard from Payno today_

 _Wow im getting it on both ends_ , Niall responds.

Louis’ heart quickens. _??_

_He just tectewd me abt you an hour ago_

_*texted sry im playing fifa_

_What did he say??_ Louis types at lightning speed.

_Same thing you said. asked me like “have you heard from louis haha not asking for any reason hahaha”_

Louis has a little stir of hope, then. _Oh alright.  havent talked to him since yesterday_

_Ought to text him_

_dunno. he was the one who stormed out.  sort of want to give him space_

_my advice ? You're both being twats,_ Niall says helpfully.

 _i know that !!_ , Louis says back.

_Well If you arent doing anything play me , gregs being annoying_

_but id have to get dressed and walk downstairs_

_Wtf are you doing right now then_

_Lying on the floor smoking_

_Tommo you fuckin moper . Go downstairs and turn the ps4 on lad_

_Ok_ , Louis relents.

 

/

 

Louis’ phone rings at half five. He immediately glances down from the TV, not expecting it to actually be Liam, but it is.

His heart, quite embarrassingly, leaps and begins to pound hard. He pauses the game.

“Hullo?”

“Hey,” Liam says, sounding sort of tentative. “Sorry, this is -- um, Zayn’s just called me. He's doing a solo live tonight for the eleven, in a dodgy neighborhood, and he's feeling sort of spooked since Brexit, so he doesn't want to do it alone. I just, like -- d’you want to come with me to give him backup? Since we're off today.”

Disappointed, Louis struggles to respond.

“I’d get it if not,” Liam says quickly. “Don't feel like you've got to.”

“No, I'll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, text me the address.”

“Alright. See you soon.”

“See you.”

Louis hangs up, lets out a wordless shout of frustration, then picks his controller back up.

 

/

 

Liam paces around under a streetlight as Zayn sets up the shot and dials in to go live; when he's finished, he glances up at him, the cord of his earpiece bouncing.

“Liam.”

“Yeah.”

“Relax. What's up with you?”

“What? I’m relaxed.”

Zayn gives him a disbelieving look and gets to his feet, stepping onto the sidewalk in front of the camera. “Check my shot?”

Liam comes over and adjusts it a little, panning up slightly. He hears a soft “Hi” from behind him.

He turns around. Louis is standing there in a dark corduroy jacket, looking ansty and sort of vulnerable.

Tingly pins and needles sweep across Liam’s body. “Hey,” he says back. It's nice just to see him, even with things so uncertain.

Louis gives him a little smile. “Any trouble so far?”

“Nothin’ yet,” Zayn mutters as he reads over his notes.

Louis comes over to them and leans on the brick wall opposite Liam, lingering in his peripheral vision so he can't quite read his expression.

“Mate, if you could give that focus another look, that'd be great. It's been tricky lately...”

Liam obliges, entirely out of habit and barely paying attention to what he's doing. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.

Zayn shuffles his paper around, mouthing to himself.

“What's the story?” Louis says.

“Increased Met presence in this neighborhood,” Zayn says. “‘Cos of anti-immigrant sort of incidents. Soo…”

Liam glances up. “You didn't mention that part.”

Zayn gives him a terse smile. “You'd get worried.”

“I am worried!”

“Well, that's why I've got you two here, innit?” Zayn clears his throat. “Check one, check two…” He squints, listening to the producer in his ear. “Alright. Yeah, got it. Thanks…”

“Jane and Vern producing tonight?” Louis says. He looks a bit fidgety.

“Yeah, them two,” Zayn says.

Liam tries to breathe evenly, but it's hard. He wishes Louis would just come to him and tell him it's going to be alright, that they're such a good fit for each other things will just naturally work themselves out, that he's just as miserable as Liam is right now. In front of Zayn, whatever, he doesn't care. He just misses him.

At first it seems like Zayn’s live shot will go off without a hitch, and then two neighborhood toughs stroll by and do a double take at the camera and lights setup.

“Hey,” one says. “Look at pretty boy. Is that the same pretty boy that was lurkin’ around here earlier, knocking on doors?”

“I think it is,” says the taller, tattooed one.

Zayn continues talking into the camera, seeming unfazed, although his body tenses up.

“Funny, I think he was asking about immigrants. D’you think he's got a bit of an, uh, personal interest?”

“Oi, move on, mingers,” Louis snaps at them.

They both look over at him.

“Oh, we've got his wee friend here,” says the tattooed one. “I’m shaking in my boots. I could have you out in one, mate.”

“Yeah?” Louis snaps. “I wouldn't try it, _mate_.”

Liam steps out from the shadows and comes over, getting between Louis and the bigger one. The bloke stares at him hard and gets in his space. Liam stands stock-still.

“Do us a favor and move along,” he says sharply.

The two of them size him up.

“Do yourself a favor, more accurately,” Louis adds.

Seeming to decide they're outnumbered, they settle for giving him an unpleasant look and slowly ambling away, scoffing at Zayn as they pass him. A minute or so after they've gone, Zayn finishes his shot and starts swearing under his breath, yanking his earpiece out.

“Great people around here,” Louis says.

“Oh, I know,” Zayn says, looking grim. “You should've heard what I was gettin’ earlier.”

“Shitheads.”

Liam and Louis help him start dismantling the camera, studiously avoiding each other's hands.

“Well,” Liam says, after he heaves it into the car, “good thing we were here, yeah?”

“Yeah, thank you both.”

“Right,” Louis says in a small voice. “I think I'll be on my way, boys.”

“Ay, no, get a drink with us!” Zayn exclaims. “C’mon, mate…”

Louis looks at Liam, who looks back at him, woebegone. He doesn't want to push it, so he stands there motionless and says nothing.

“Nah, I'm alright.”

He turns to go, and then turns back.

“You didn't have to jump in front of me, Payno,” he says. “I can hold my own.”

“I know you can,” Liam says quickly. “Just, if something happened, I dunno. I'd rather take the first punch.”

He could say, but doesn't, that he would so much rather take a punch than watch Louis get hit, that the thought of that twists his guts like balloon animals.

Louis gazes at him for a moment, gives him a wistful little smile, then slowly walks away to his car.


	22. Chapter 22

At the pub, Liam can sense Zayn wants to ask about whatever's going on between him and Louis, so he keeps him distracted by peppering him with questions about how things are at the BBC, how his girlfriend’s doing, how his family’s doing, and an hour in he finally runs out of things to say and lets a pause go too long.

Zayn jumps in like it's a relay race, squinting at Liam in the dim light of the pub and setting his beer down with a soft clunk. “So,” he says. “You and Louis fighting, or something? Seemed sort of tense earlier.”

“Oh, God,” Liam exhales. “Can we go outside?”

“Sure.”

The pub’s beer garden is buzzing with chatting yuppies, so they stake out a quieter table that sits between a tree and the row of hedges, giving them a bit of privacy.

At a table few meters away, a bloke loudly says, “Oh, it’s officially Sunday now,” and the bird he's with goes, “Sunday funday!” which their entire group seems to find raucously amusing. Zayn gives them a side-eyed glance and lights a cigarette.

“‘Sup?” he says to Liam.

Liam takes a sip of his beer, his chest constricting with anxiety. “Um,” he says, drawing circles with his finger on the table. “Dunno quite how to -- er.”

“Start at the beginning.”

Liam draws his bottom lip into his mouth. “So... the night after Brexit…”

“Yeah?”

“I sort of...” His mouth goes dry. “I had it off with Louis.”

Zayn’s eyes go as round as footballs, and he starts choking on cigarette smoke.

Liam sits there, relieved at finally having said it, politely waiting as he coughs and coughs.

Zayn finally downs some of his beer and is able to speak again.

“You what, mate?” he says, his voice hoarse.

“I slept with Louis.”

“No, I heard you.”

Zayn flicks his cigarette and stares at the table between them, gears obviously turning in his head. The cheerful din from the other tables suddenly feels downright oppressive.

“I didn't know you went that way,” Zayn says after a bit, glancing up at him. “You never said anythin’ to me about blokes. Not once.”

Liam shrugs helplessly. “I dunno.”

“You like --” Zayn has another sip of his beer. “You had sex? The whole bit?”

“Sex, the whole bit.”

“You fancy him an’ all that?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, and then adds miserably: “A lot.”

“Alright. Shit. Okay.” Zayn shakes his head. “Let me just, like, get me head around that one.”

He smokes in silence for a minute or two, his brow furrowed, while Liam nervously drinks the rest of his beer at breakneck pace.

“So -- what ‘appened, like?” Zayn says, folding his arms. “Why's it awkward?”

Liam looks around to make sure no one's paying attention to them, and then he takes him through the entire thing start to finish, from the pining, to the hotel room, all the way up through the day of Brexit. By the end Zayn’s attention is riveted, his expression unreadable, sitting with his hand over his mouth and chin as he studies Liam with dark eyes.

“Shit,” he says, finally, straightening up and letting out a sigh. “Alright.”

“I feel like I fucked up,” Liam says. “Like -- maybe, looking back, he did warn me it'd be complicated, before we even -- y’know. But --”

Zayn grins. “You wanted to get your end away, mate.”

“No, that's not it at all!”

“It sort of is, though, right? At least, you wanted to go to bed wiv ‘im straight away and figure out all the talky shit later.”

“I mean, yeah, we both did…”

“But you've got to realize, Louis’ brain goes all the time, he can't turn that shit off. An’ he's reactive, like. So if he gets scared, backed into a corner, he's gonna lash out and say some shit he maybe don't mean, and it's gonna feel like it came out of nowhere ‘cos you weren't thinkin’ like that, but you don't realize his brain’s been going and going this whole time. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah, no, keep going,” Liam says in relief. “I feel like I ought to be taking notes.”

Zayn jokingly pushes a napkin over to him.

“I just feel like he won't believe me,” Liam confesses, and lays his head down on his folded arms like a little boy. “After how he reacted. He’ll say all the same things again.”

“But it sounds like you really didn't plead your case too well the first go round, mate,” Zayn says. “I know you sorta sometimes… like, you think people can read your mind, and you say shit that gets taken the wrong way, ‘cos you think you gave a context that you really didn't.”

“I kno-ow,” Liam moans into his arms.

“He's just scared, trust me. He gets scared and ‘e pushes people away, is all. He’s protecting himself, and he thinks he's protecting you. You've just got to go and tell him how serious you are about it.”

“Yeah, and maybe he won't believe me.”

“Make him believe you!” Zayn says, waving his cigarette around. “Shout ‘im down! Slap him around a bit! I'm joking, but y’know.”

“You're being really wise tonight.”

Zayn shrugs. “I dunno. Been readin’ some Claire Rayner.”

Liam's quiet for a moment.

“I just feel like shit,” he murmurs. “I can't remember when I've felt this shitty. Every song on the radio’s about him, you know? I can't stop, like -- I think about him every second. I feel like I've got the flu and I took a bunch of Sudafed and I'm, like, dying.”

“Liam. Tell him that. For fuck’s sake, no offense, this ain't brain surgery.”

Liam lifts his head, filling with a tremulous but steely resolve. “I should just go, right?”

“Go! Go right now, shit. Just go, like --” Zayn laughs. “Be a man, alright?”

Liam gets up, nodding. They clasp hands, brotherly, and he walks out of the garden, past all the yuppies, not hearing them anymore. They’re just flashes of color and movement in his peripheral vision; he floats through the pub to his car. He's a man on a mission.

 

/

 

After he got home, Louis let his phone die and went to bed early; he’s in that surreal twilight before real sleep when he's jarred back awake by shouting outside his window.

He sits up, listening. Someone is yelling from right outside his window, the sound echoing up and down the narrow street outside his flat.

Louis gets up and goes over to his own window, poking his head out. Old Mrs Rolfe, who lives in the flat next to his, is shouting at a man standing below in the street.

It takes a moment for his vision to adjust to the darkness, and then he slowly realizes the man is Liam. His heart lurches.

“Fuckin’ delinquents waking me up at all odd hours,” Mrs Rolfe is going on and on. “Throwing rocks at windows. Some people have jobs, you know!”

“I am honestly so sorry, miss,” Liam shouts up to her. “I had the wrong window, is all, I promise I do have a job!”

“Payno,” Louis yells, filled with joy that he's here, filled with joy that he is who he is.

Liam looks over at him and stumbles back into the street, tripping on the curb and nearly tumbling over. “Louis,” he calls back, sounding greatly relieved.

Louis grins at him. “Were you tryin’ to throw _rocks_ at my window, mate?”

Mrs Rolfe makes a _harrumph_ sound.

“Yeah,” Liam shouts back. “You weren't picking up your phone!”

“Sorry, it died! Just come up here, will you?”

Liam immediately moves forward toward the lobby of the flat; Louis goes out into his foyer and buzzes him up, then unlocks the door. The wait for him to get up to the third floor is interminable. Louis stands, frozen with tension, squeezing and unsqueezing his right fist. He hears Liam’s feet pounding on the stairs. His mouth goes dry.

Liam knocks, and then after half a heartbeat he seems to realize the absurdity of this and opens it.

He fills the doorway, but looks little, somehow. There's a wounded openness to his face.

“Hi,” Louis says quietly.

“Hi,” Liam says, and exhales.

Louis goes to him and kisses him, because he can't really stand it anymore. They cling to each other, snogging greedily, Liam pulling him up onto his tiptoes. Slowly, they manage to pull back from each other’s lips. Louis nuzzles his neck, cupping his jaw in his hands.

“Can I say some things?” Liam murmurs, and Louis laughs.

“I think it's only fair,” he says, gazing up at him, “after I went on and on the other day…”

Liam inhales deeply and lets his hand fall from Louis’ shoulders to rest at the small of his back, like they're slow-dancing.

“I can't stop thinking about you,” Liam says, his voice catching a little. “I -- you're in my head constantly, and it's honestly been like that for a while, now. But it's so much worse since -- I literally, I can't even do anything. I can't eat, I can't sleep --”

“Me neither,” Louis tells him, his heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

“Like, this is miserable. This sucks. Not talking to you...”

“I know...”

“I just want to be with you,” Liam says, and he blinks hard. Louis’ focus is drawn by the dark fringe of his eyelashes. “I want -- I'll be out at work, I'll take the heat. I'll bring you ‘round to meet my family. They'll be surprised, yeah, but -- I'm really --”

He drags in air. Louis takes him by the hand and leads him to the sitting room. They collapse on the couch together, Louis half on Liam's lap, stroking his shoulder through his shirt.

“I want to be together with you in front of people,” Liam says, in that passionately sincere way of his. “I do want to date you. I want to take you out to dinner and hold hands in the park and things. I want people to know somebody this smart and great likes me, thinks I'm special, ‘cos everybody I meet thinks _you're_ special --”

“Liam,” Louis says, emotional, and smooths his hair back off his forehead.

Liam takes Louis’ hand and interlaces their fingers. “You haven't got to protect me. And my career ain't your responsibility. If I get shafted, something happens, Simon fucks me over, it's not your fault.”

“I know,” Louis says, and kisses him along the jaw. “I know, I do…”

“I'm in,” Liam says, drawing back slightly to study him. There's so much hope on his face that looking at him feels like looking at the sun. “I'm in. That's all I'm saying. And don't tell me I don't know what that means. I'm not an idiot.”

Louis presses his face to Liam's neck, right where he smells most strongly of his cologne, and Liam kisses him on the head. He loves it when he does that. It makes him feel safe.

“Okay,” he says, exhaling.

“It's not your fault that it's going to be hard,” Liam whispers. “It's not on you to protect me. It just is what it is.”

“Is it?” Louis teases, and Liam laughs.

“Alright?”

Louis closes his eyes and fists his hand hard in the fabric of Liam’s shirt. “Alright,” he murmurs.

Liam studies him. “You haven’t said much.”

He laughs softly. “I was afraid I’d scared you off, honestly.”

“Oh, no,” Liam says cheerfully. “Takes a lot more than that to get rid of me, I promise.”

“Good,” Louis says, gazing at his sweet face, stroking his jaw. “I don’t want to be rid of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, mate,” he says in a little voice. “I want all that shit too. Everything you said.”

Liam pulls Louis onto his lap and they snog, longer this time, dizzied with relief; they keep bumping teeth or moving their heads wrong and laughing with breathless joy.

Louis pulls back after a few minutes of this. “Want to go to bed?”

Liam nods hard, and Louis pulls him to his feet and down the hall. They collapse onto the bed, tugging at each other's clothes, kissing noisily and rutting despite two layers of denim. Behind the filmy curtains, the moon hangs high in the pitchy sky, round and full and shining, at home in the dark.

“I was fucking pathetic today,” Louis pants, breaking their kiss so he can get Liam’s fly undone. “Just laid around thinking about you.”

“I teared up at a Billy Joel song on the radio,” Liam says, laughing huskily, “I think I win --”

“I went ninety weeks back on your Instagram.”

“I called you forty-two times in a row before I started throwing pebbles at your window.”

Louis starts laughing and runs his hands through Liam’s hair, relishing in the feel of their bodies pressed together, of Liam's hands on him. “Are we honestly getting competitive over which one of us was being more pathetic about the other?”

“Apparently,” Liam says, his grin flashing in the dark.

They snog harder and Louis drags them up the bed so he can fumble in the nightstand for lube. Liam tears his jeans off him and starts mouthing at his cock through his boxers, sending shivers shooting up his spine.

So Louis drags his boxers off his arse. Liam kisses the head and strokes his shaft; Louis gazes at him in amazement, breathing quietly, this bloke who’s never so much as touched another man’s dick in his life acting like there’s magic stashed in Louis’ bollocks.

“Liam,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Liam says, and flicks his eyes up at him, kissing the inside of Louis’ thigh. His beard tickles. Louis shivers.

“Could I fuck you tonight?” His voice catches and cracks a bit. “After you do me?”

Liam’s eyes go wide, and he pauses.

“Only if you’re into it,” Louis says. “Not trying to rush you into anythin’.”

Liam runs his hands up and down Louis’ thighs.

“I’m interested,” he says softly.

“Oh _are_ you. Payno?” Louis says, grinning.

“Long as you’re gentle,” Liam says, grinning back.

“Yeah, ‘course, always… but do me first,” he says, spreading his legs.

Liam extends his hand for the lube.

He’s better at fingering him, this time. He seems less unsure of himself overall, and now that they aren’t both delirious from being so desperate to fuck after months of yearning, so desperate for that release, they really take their time.

They gaze into each other’s eyes while he does it, Louis letting out small noises of gratification and discomfort and arousal, and he sees Liam’s every little reaction to them. He loves how open Liam’s face is. He strokes his hair as he bears down on his fingers, petting him, caressing him.

Liam lays himself down over Louis, pressing his lips to his neck as he crooks his fingers and rubs at Louis harder. Louis arches into him, wanting more of everything.

“I want you in me,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut and rolling his hips. “You feel so good in me, Christ.”

“Yeah?” Liam murmurs, kissing up his jaw, his cheekbone, the corner of his lips. “I fit good?”

“You fit perfect… _Oh…_ ”

He wraps his arms around Liam’s shoulders, holding him as close as possible, and Liam wraps one strong arm around his waist, pressing his palm to the small of Louis’ back. Louis lets his eyes close again.

“Good boy,” he moans when Liam fingers particularly hard at his prostate.

“I'm learning,” Liam says, and laughs. “You’re a good teacher…”

“Yeah?” Louis says, grinning, giddy with arousal, and kisses him hard, dragging his teeth over his lower lip. He loves the taste of Liam’s mouth; he’s sour like beer but sweet underneath. He loves his full, soft lips.

There's the familiar burn of discomfort when he slides in, but when it starts to fade, he feels like he's come home. His brain has gone quiet, for once. He reaches up and palms at a pillow; Liam reads his mind and grabs it, lifting him fluidly so he can shove it under his hips.

“Fuck,” Louis moans, gripping hard at the back of his neck. His eyes are closed; he feels like he's turning to rubber, boneless, melting into the bed.

“God, God,” Liam breathes, kissing the side of his face as he thrusts into him. “You're so tight, fucking hell.”

Itchy, euphoric arousal builds in Louis’ pelvis, and he starts to pistons his hips in time with Liam’s, but he tries to hold back some. His body wants to come, but he wants to wait.

Liam is even more loving and tender than he was the other night, slower, more measured. He keeps meeting Louis’ eyes. Louis loves to look back at him. It feels like letting himself float in the ocean -- his feet leaving the sand, the sway, sway of the water all around him.

“You look so good right now,” Liam murmurs to him.

Louis tries to say something back and stumbles over his words. They both laugh in that frenzied, fond way that people having good sex do.

He runs his hands through Liam’s hair, instead, and Liam twists his hips and thrusts a little harder. Louis gasps, spreading his legs further so he can get deeper.

They fuck for a while. It feels like hours and hours; it's probably more like fifteen minutes. By the end they're both trembly and sweating and so entwined in each other’s limbs that they feel like one person, just one strange ouroboros of a person fucking himself, kissing himself, running his fingertips reverently over his own cheekbones.

Louis is utterly out of his own head, for once. He feels like he does when he's extremely high, like his consciousness is bouncing around the room, not tethered to his own body. He tries not to get too hard, so he can fuck Liam, but he feels his orgasm building dizzily everywhere -- in the deepest part of his pelvis, in the base of his spine, in his gut, his thighs, his head.

Liam keeps his arms wrapped around him, kissing him often, nuzzling him. He maintains a really steady rhythm with his hips, almost like he's hypnotized by being inside him.

Louis can tell when he's almost there, because the steady rhythm changes. It gets faster and rougher. He likes this, and moans high in his throat to encourage Liam; Liam exhales hard and sinks his nails into Louis’ thigh, using his body as a ballast as he gives a few final thrusts and then moans himself as he comes inside him.

“Liam,” Louis sighs. “Liam, Liam.”

Liam kisses him on his chest and then they lie there together, breathing hard. Louis tangles his fingers in Liam’s sweaty hair, then slides his hand down to cradle the back of his head and presses his lips to his forehead.

“That was really gentle,” he murmurs. 

“Sorry,” Liam says with a chuckle, his voice deep from orgasm.

“I like it,” Louis admits.

“Really?”

Louis gazes up at the ceiling, a hundred emotions fluttering around in his chest. “Yeah. I do... I mean, you could get rougher with me --”

“I tried!”

“That was you gettin’ rough with me?”

“Yeah!”

“When, mate?”

“Toward the end, there?”

Louis laughs hard, the motion of his chest jostling Liam a little. Liam slides up further on the bed, resting his head next to Louis’. He's still inside of him.

“You tried,” Louis murmurs, petting his hair. “Baby steps.”

“Wasn’t I sort of rough the other night? I felt like I was too rough, almost.”

“Nah, nah, that was great. Just now was great, too, I just like a bit of play.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“I dunno… spank me, pull me hair…”

“Hmm,” Liam says throatily.

Excitement rises in Louis’ chest. “Oh, he's interested?”

“I’ve already pulled your hair, haven't I? Could spank you once in a while…” Liam gives him a bit of a wicked grin. “When you deserve it…”

Louis grins back. “When do I deserve it?”

“I'm gonna take the fifth on that.”

“Ho ho.”

Liam gets cutely cross-eyed gazing at him as he leans in for a kiss. Louis slips his tongue into his mouth, and they snog eagerly while Liam goes soft in him.

Louis slides off him, finally, separating them with a funny wet sound that makes them both laugh. Liam wraps his arms around him, and they lie down on their sides, Louis with his face buried in the crook of Liam's neck as he toys idly with his chest hair.

“Anyone ever put anything up your arse before?” he murmurs.

Liam laughs. “Noo, can't say they have.”

“Yeah? Sophia never tried to get anything up there?”

“Sophia was an arse-grabber, sometimes, but not an arse, er, plunderer…”

“Plunderer?”

“Buggerer?”

“You've gone from bad to worse, lad. You're an arse plunderer yourself now, aren't you?”

Liam laughs and strokes his thumb over Louis’ shoulderblade. “Never said I hadn't done anal before, just never had it done to me.”

“Ohh,” Louis says, chuckling appreciatively. “Cheeky boy..."

“What's it feel like?”

Louis shifts against him. “It's weird at first, I won't lie. But you get used to it, and then your prostate starts feeling good…” He presses his hand to Liam’s firm lower stomach. “I'll try to, I dunno, do on you what I like.”

“Did you fuck Harry?” Liam asks, with a sort of jealous curiosity.

Louis clears his throat. “Yeah, I fucked Harry.”

“Was that… um…” Liam laughs breathily. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask.”

“Harry…” Louis’ hands still. “I dunno... I dunno. He was very, y’know, particular. Not so much about the person, more about the… concept of the experience.” He thinks of Harry’s morning meditation, and his bullet journal -- which Louis read once, expecting to find some hidden thoughts or secrets, but it was just page after page of crisply organized to-do lists.

“You don't sound so into that,” Liam says.

“Right you are.”

He trails his fingers up Louis’ spine. “He always seems to me like he'd be good in bed.”

Louis laughs. “‘Scuse me?”

“Not like I want to fuck him! I mean, he's attractive, but he's like -- a person in a shampoo commercial.”

“So, a very beautiful person, then?”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Liam says, with that stubborn boyish sureness of his. “I don’t want a shampoo man.”

“Good, I’m not a shampoo man,” Louis says. He goes quiet for a moment. “And I’m not Sophia.”

“Oh, shit, you’re not? I could have sworn you’ve been her this entire time.”

Louis presses against him, giggling, kissing his pecs.

“I lost all five senses in a traffic accident last week, it’s all been sort of guesswork since then. Sad reacts only.”

“Stop, stop. Is this about to turn into a crack on my driving?”

“Sorry, are you saying something, right now?”

“Fuck off!” Louis says, laughing.

“Well,” Liam says, and strokes his hair. “I like you. You make me feel good.”

He says this with a bit of hesitation, so Louis kisses him and whispers throatily, “You make me feel good too.”

“Yeah?” Liam says between kisses. His eyes are bright, and his lips are all red.

“Yeah,” Louis purrs, kissing him harder and climbing on top of him.

Liam grins at him. “You're gonna fuck me now?”

“I'm gonna fuck you now, virgin boy.” Louis pauses. “Didn’t mean that to sound so sinister.”

“I sort of liked it,” Liam admits.

This makes Louis’ uncomfortably hard cock pulse. He leans over him and licks his ear. “I’m gonna wreck your virgin arse, Payno,” he growls, and Liam laughs hard.

He considers the lay of the land. “Maybe you ought to be on your stomach?”

Liam knits his eyebrows. “I can’t look at you?”

“Just while I loosen you up,” Louis says, laughing. “I’m not banishing you.”

“Oh, alright,” Liam says, and agreeably rolls over. Louis strokes his hair.

He starts off not even fingering him, but massaging Liam’s thighs, stroking him everywhere, trying to get him as relaxed as possible. He really wants to come; he’s so hard that he keeps gritting his teeth.

“Okay,” Liam says after a while. His voice is slow and dreamy. “Go on.”

Louis lubes up his hand and eases a finger into Liam, who grabs the sheets, his knuckles going white, and lets out a choked sound.

“Alright?”

“I, uh,” Liam says. “Yeah, keep going. Yeah, I’m good.”

Louis spends what feels like ages loosening him up. He likes doing it, really. He likes hearing all the little sounds that come out of Liam, watching the muscles in his back bunch and release. He closes his eyes, concentrating only on the back and forth of his slick fingers against the inner wall of him, the soft respondent moans that come out, his own cock leaking idly against his thighs.

Liam rolls onto his back after a while, gazing half-lidded up at Louis, lit by the moonlight. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Louis murmurs, and lies down on the bed with him, stroking his hair off his forehead as he keeps fingering him. Liam’s lip twitches, and his eyes flutter closed. He wraps his arms around Louis.

They start kissing again, pressed tight against each other. Louis can feel Liam’s heartbeat against his own chest. He’s sort of lost track of time and space when Liam murmurs, “I think I’m good, now?”

His cock throbs. “You are?”

“I think.”

Buzzing with excitement, Louis crooks his fingers again. Liam gasps.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” he breathes. “Go.”

Louis doesn’t need to be told twice. He nudges the head of his cock against Liam, who inhales and starts kissing him again. Louis sucks on his top lip as he starts guiding himself in. Just the tip. Liam tenses up, gripping him hard by the hair.

Louis stops for a moment, kissing him all over his face. Liam relaxes again and then nods.

“I can stop,” Louis murmurs.

“I want you,” Liam says, shaking his head. “It feels good, I want you.”

Louis picks his phone up off the bed and puts on one of Spotify's sex playlists, kissing down Liam’s chest as he eases into him.

Liam laughs breathily. “No candles?”

“No candles, sorry…”

“Oh, oh.” Liam grips his hair, pulling a little. Louis relishes the pain in his scalp.

“Steady,” he murmurs, and runs his tongue over Liam's nipple.

“I'm good,” Liam says, and lets out a whiny moan. “I'm good.”

He works, shifting his hips and maneuvering carefully, to get in the rest of the way. Liam is a dizzyingly hot vice around his cock.

“Love,” Louis whispers, kissing him. Liam kisses back, taking long lingering drags off Louis’ lips.

“You're in me,” Liam says, sounding dazed, blinking, the lush fringe of his eyelashes closing over liquid dark eyes.

Louis starts to thrust, very tenderly, and Liam lets out a broken sigh. Louis kisses him more. He has this heady, feverish feeling; it's hard to believe he's really in Liam like this. He thinks he's going to come really soon, which is both a disappointment and a huge relief.

Liam is clinging to him harder and snogging him really deeply. He lets out another moan as Louis gets deeper in him.

“Does it feel good?”

Liam nods. He draws back, his eyes unfocused. “Yeah. I just -- it's a lot.”

“I've got you,” Louis assures him, and presses their foreheads together.

He realizes a moment later that tears are leaking from Liam’s eyes, trailing silently down his cheeks.

“Oh, hey,” he whispers, slowing the motion of his hips.

“It's alright,” Liam assures him. “It's not, like --”

“But you're crying…”

Liam laughs and squeezes his eyes shut, like he's trying to blink the teardrops away. “Was hoping you wouldn't notice.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” Liam admits. “I'm feeling a lot of things. Not in a bad way. Don't pull out, I don't want you to.”

“Does it hurt?”

Liam shakes his head.

“Alright,” Louis demurs, and kisses the tears off his cheeks, worried about him.

They circle closer, then, Louis pressing his face to Liam’s clavicle, firmly in the shelter of his arms as he keeps rocking his cock up inside of him. It feels so good, even though he's so close to coming and every second feels like time borrowed against the clock with Liam as tight as he is.

Liam presses his lips to Louis’ sweaty hairline, stroking his back, continuing to let out little moans or gasps.

Louis comes a while later, swearing softly and biting Liam gently on the throat. Liam holds him tighter and whispers to him about how good he feels, but he seems sort of overwhelmed.

“Poor Payno,” Louis murmurs. “It's a lot, the first time. We can get some poppers if you'd like to try again.”

Liam sniffles. “Poppers?”

“They're these things you snort, they make your arse loose. I got fucked for the first time in a club, I did those and I barely felt him.”

“Who was he?”

“I don't remember,” Louis admits.

They go quiet. Louis slides out of him, resulting in a wince Liam tries to hide.

“It's alright,” he says, and trails his fingers over the back of Louis’ neck, the bump at the top of his spine. “It felt nice, I promise. I just… It was a lot. I dunno. I'm not normally a crier, I swear.”

“I don't think I've ever had someone cry on me before,” Louis says, smiling at him and kissing his full top lip.

“So a new one for both of us,” Liam says, and his bassy chuckle makes his chest rumble.

Louis plays with his hair. “Hey, um. I'm going to go see my family next weekend…”

Liam’s hand stills. “You inviting me?”

“If you'd like to come along.”

“Absolutely, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Louis says playfully. “You ready for that? Pretty boyfriendy.”

“Are we not doing the boyfriendy thing?”

Louis blinks, sort of stunned by Liam’s matter-of-fact delivery. “If you'd like to be?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

Louis sits up, looking down at Liam, who's gazing up at him with messy hair and a sweet smile. He brings his hands to Louis’ thighs and squeezes them. Louis gets a little shiver from the feel of his warm, calloused palms.

“Why not,” he repeats.

Liam’s smile gets bigger, and he pulls him back down so he can spoon him, his arms firm and gentle around him. He tenderly kisses the back of Louis’ neck, and Louis grins to himself in the dark. He forgets to turn the music off, and they’re too exhausted to be bothered by it, so Rihanna croons them to sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

They wake up spooning. It must be a hot day; Louis is sweating. The clock radio is on and blaring Radio 1. He always sets it to go off on Sundays, so he doesn’t sleep through a hangover and miss football.

The cat is creeping up the bed, then sits and looks at him, meowing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting up,” Louis whispers to him.

Liam stirs and moves his hand suddenly, accidentally bonking Louis on the nose hard enough to make his eyes water.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. His voice is sleepy and hoarse in a cute way.

“You’re alright.” Louis says, and rolls over. They look at each other, smiling, and kiss.

“I have extra toothbrushes,” he says when they separate.

Liam’s eyes twinkle. “That bad?”

“I mean, it’s not great. Want to shower?”

“Wow, now I’m smelly too?” Liam exclaims.

“No, you’ve just got dried come all over you.”

“Oh, shit, I forgot.”

“Actually we both have,” he says, and lifts the sheet to verify.

“Hi there,” Liam says to Louis’ morning wood.

“Shh, not in front of the cat.”

Louis feeds Godfrey very quickly -- half of the kibble ends up on the floor -- and dashes back upstairs like a madman. In the shower, under a lukewarm spray of water, Liam starts soaping Louis’ cock and then rinsing it off with slow, luxurious tugs. Louis leans back against the wall of the shower, tipping his head up and groaning.

“What’re you gonna do with that?” he says, his voice cracking.

Liam smiles. “I think I’m gonna put it in my mouth.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, playful. Louis’ eyelids flutter as he gets on his knees in the shower and pulls the foreskin back, licking at his tip.

“Brilliant,” Louis breathes. “You’re just full of good ideas, Payno.”

Liam smiles at him and starts tonguing his balls. Louis moans like he’s being tortured.

 

/

 

Niall calls when they get out and have flopped back into bed together, snogging, all clean-smelling and happy and still naked as the day they were born.

Louis doesn’t even look to see who it is, he snatches it up and demands, “Hullo?”

“None too friendly today, Tommo? You hungover?”

“No, I’m alright.”

“Are you comin’ to the match?”

“I don’t think so,” Louis says. Liam looks up at him and starts sucking at his nipple. He tries not to make a sound.

“Why not?” Niall sounds put out.

“‘Cos Liam’s actually got me nipple in his mouth right now.”

“Ohh, disgusting,” Niall says, but he’s suddenly much more cheerful. “So you two worked it out, then?”

“All worked out.”

“Fantastic. Robbie’s going to kill me when I tell them you’re both not coming.”

“Tell him we’re doing somethin’ for work, or tell him we’re fucking, whatever you like.”

“So, you boyfriends now? What’s up?”

Louis puts the phone to his chest. Liam has moved south and is worshipfully kissing his thighs. “Are we boyfriends now?”

Liam nods.

He puts the phone back to his ear. “Liam says yes.”

“I thought he had your nipple in his mouth.”

“We’ve moved on from that, lad.”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it, then. Have fun. We’ll do our best to get on wit’ six players.” Niall says this with an exaggerated air of dramatics.

“Invite Harry.”

“Har har. Harry can watch from a safe distance.”

“Best of luck, anyway,” Louis says breezily, “bye Nialler,” and tosses his mobile aside to look at Liam. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” Liam says. His voice is a little hoarse, but cheery. “So, I’d like to take you out for breakfast.”

“Oi, maybe I wanted to take _you_ out for breakfast.”

Liam considers this. “Can we pay for each other’s breakfasts?”

“That doesn’t really make much sense, but sure,” Louis agrees. “C’mere.”

He obediently moves up on the bed, and they share a long kiss. Louis could kiss him for hours.

“I need a cup of coffee,” Liam says, after a while. Louis loves how red and swollen his lips are from the prior blowjob and now from the kissing. “Or two. I didn’t sleep great.”

“Why not?”

“It was humid, and your arse is like a little space heater. It was boiling my willy all night.”

Louis gapes at him. “‘Scuse me!”

“It is! All the heat in your body goes straight to your arse, like it's a little engine.”

Louis wrestles him onto the bed, and they play fight. He wins by managing to give Liam a wet willy. Liam loudly protests this and then wraps him up in his arms, tickling him and kissing up his neck as he laughs.

“Thank Christ we don’t have work today,” Louis says.

“What about tomorrow?”

“Dunno. Want to run away with me?”

Liam nods emphatically. “Where?”

“Somewhere by the water,” Louis says, and plays with his hair. “I want to see you in little swim trunks.”

“I’ll get a Speedo,” Liam says. “Just for you. Little banana hammock.”

“Perfect. And I’m gonna pull it off you right away.”

“Like the Coppertone dog.”

“Exactly.”

 

/

 

They don’t run away anywhere, of course, because they’re good boys.

Louis doesn’t even mind. He hasn’t felt this good in ages; nothing bothers him, he’s walking on air. Things that normally make him impatient and snappy lose their effect on him. He walks around in a daze, smiling at bright pansies and slow bumblebees, feeling deep affection for everyone he sees on the street.

The two of them spend all of Sunday together, walking around London, bumping shoulders, smiling like idiots about nothing.

They run into Zayn at Foyle’s, looking zoned out as he picks bird-like through the offerings of the nonfiction section. As soon as Louis recognizes him, he goes over and pinches him on the ribs.

“Oi,” Zayn exclaims, and turns around scowling. His face immediately brightens at seeing them. “Hey! What’s this?”

“What’s it look like, mate?” Louis says.

“Looks like Liam closed the deal?” Zayn glances between them. “This is awkward, innit, if he didn’t.”

“I did,” Liam says proudly, wrapping an arm around Louis’ shoulders.

“Stormed up to me apartment building, threw rocks at my window, rushed inside like some brute --”

“I was not a brute! I was very romantic, I was like Mr Darcy, comin’ in out of the rain,” Liam says, very earnest. Louis can't help but gaze at him with a stupidly besotted look. “When he gets her on the -- in the gazebo type thing, and it’s raining, and he’s like, I can’t stand it anymore -- the one with what’s her name, from the pirate movie --”

“Payno, _what?_ No idea what you’re on about.”

“Alright, alright, ‘scuse me for having older sisters.”

“It wasn’t raining, lad,” Louis points out. “Last night.”

“I know, but it should have been.”

“I agree, it really should have been.”

Zayn looks amused by all of this. “So you’re an item, then?”

They nod in unison.

“How’s that gonna play at work?” Zayn says, setting a book back onto the shelf.

“No idea,” Louis says, anxiety stirring in his gut. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

On Monday, Louis comes in early. The newsroom is quiet. Only a few people are at their desks, idly sipping tea, fuzzy-eyed. It’s a slow news day, and people are starting to tire of the Brexit panic.

He drops his things on his desk and is booting up his computer when someone touches his hip from behind.

It’s Harry. “Glad I caught you,” he says, “can I have a moment?”

He looks sort of somber about whatever it is. Louis nods and lets Harry lead him into the conference room.

They sit across from each other. Harry gets out a pack of gum and pops a piece in his mouth, then fiddles with the wrapper, folding it again and again.

Louis stares at him. “Harold.”

“You want a piece?”

“What’s this about?”

Harry sighs. “You’re not going to be happy.”

“Maybe give me a piece then.”

Harry hands him a piece of gum. He chews it, looking out the windowed walls into the bullpen. Ellie is working on her forecast models, and Ben’s sitting up at the assignment desk, pretending to work but actually scrolling Twitter.

“Dunno how to get into this,” Harry says, drumming his fingers on the table. He looks a little tired, more subdued than normal.

“Just go ahead, mate,” Louis says. He’s starting to get a little anxious.

“Okay. Um. I’ve been interviewing at the Guardian,” Harry says. “For an investigative reporter spot. And they’ve just called me this morning to tell me I’ve got it. And I said I’d sleep on it, but I think I’m going to take it.”

Louis’ mouth goes dry, and his heart sinks. The buzz of the fluorescents grows very loud in his ears. He starts shaking his head.

“No, you can’t _leave_ ,” he says. “This is so fuckin’ out of nowhere, I -- what?”

“Lou,” Harry says, taking him by the hand and squeezing him. “You've known there isn’t any room for me to grow here, alright?”

“Grow how?”

“Please don’t make this hard on me.”

“Well,” Louis splutters.

Harry gazes at him with big, wan eyes. “I didn’t want to say anything until it was official, I didn’t want to upset you for no reason. You’re the first person I told, besides Nick.”

Louis feels like he might cry, which is ridiculous. “I mean, you told management, right?” he says, steeling himself against the lump in his throat and his burning eyes. “You’re not taking us all by surprise?”

Harry laughs. “Yeah, don't worry about that. I'm not Zayn.”

Louis tugs free of Harry, folding his arms. Harry leaves his hand sadly outstretched on the table between them.

“I just, like -- you do such good work here. You help the little guy. We need that.”

“I can help the little guy better at the Guardian,” Harry says in his slow way. “And I won’t get constant pushback for it, like I do here, from Simon. Y’know, he wants a very specific thing, and I’m just… I feel boxed in. I can’t breathe. I’m not appreciated for what I can really do.”

“I know,” Louis says mournfully. He should have seen this coming. In some ways, he did. “You’re a bloody great writer, you deserve better, I do know.”

“I know you know. I know you tried to fix it. This isn’t your fault, mate,” Harry says, with a pained look.

The way he says mate is stilted, like he stopped himself just in time from saying babe or love instead.

“Fuck,” Louis says, rubbing at his eyes. “You’re like, my best reporter. No shade on any of the rest of them, but... Oh, Hazza. Fuck. This is making me really sad.”

Harry comes around the table and hugs him. “I don’t want to make you sad,” he whispers. “I just want to make myself happy, y’know? And it’s not even just management. It’s that… I don't want it to just be about my _face_ anymore. I want my writing to stand on its own, I want to be taken more seriously. And I've wanted that for ages.”

“I know,” Louis says again, because he does know.

“You’ll still see loads of me. I’ll visit all the time, I’ll be just down the road. We can get lunch. Me… um. Me and Nick just got a bit more serious. So I’ll be by to visit him, and that.”

This takes Louis by surprise. “Seriously? You did?”

Harry straightens up and looks at him sheepishly. “Er… yeah. We did. Went exclusive, the whole bit.”

“Congratulations,” he says, because what else do you say? Then he remembers his own news, and hesitates. “I -- me and Liam are a thing, now.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his neatly groomed eyebrows jumping up. “Officially?”

“Officially.” He smiles without meaning to.

“Good,” Harry says, after a moment of quiet reflection. “Good, I like him for you. He’s good to you.”

“He is,” Louis murmurs. “I like the decent ones.”

Harry flashes him a smile.

“Is Nick throwing a goodbye party for you?”

“Oh, ‘course. He’s calling it the good riddance to bad rubbish party.”

“Naturally.”

They exchange a wistful look.

“Sorry,” Louis offers.

“For what?”

“For being bitchy about Nick, I dunno.”

Harry shakes his head. “I think we can call it evens between us, on that. We're equally guilty.”

Louis laughs. “That’s fair.”

They study each other for a moment.

“I actually have to go upstairs,” he says, “and tell Simon that, y’know. Me and Liam.”

“You’re just going to say it?”

“Just going to throw it right out there.”

“Your dynamic’s so funny to me,” Harry says. “Like a very dysfunctional Mary Tyler Moore and Ed Asner. And you know, for all the shit he gives you, you’re the only person he even really likes down here. Besides Paul.”

“He’s my shit dad,” Louis says, shrugging as he gets up. “Like I needed another. Anyway… so, we’ll see what he says.”

“You think he’ll take it alright?”

“Think he’ll have to, yeah? But just in case, they hiring anyone else at the Guardian?”

Harry snorts. “You, leave telly to work at a newspaper?"

"No, you're right, I'd be bored out of my head, wouldn't I?"

"There’s always the Beeb.”

“I truly think Niall would kill me,” Louis says. “Good luck telling him about this, by the way.”

“Oh, I know,” Harry says, his face falling. “Fuck. I’ll see him all the time though, you know? We’re neighbors, even…”

“Ain’t the same, lad.”

“I know it isn’t.”

This hangs awkwardly in the air between them.

“Well, start coming to footie on Sundays, then,” Louis says, heading for the door. “If they haven’t got you working weekends. Are you giving us your two weeks, then, or what?”

“Forty-five days is what my contract stipulates,” Harry says, and follows him out. “Longer, if you're all having a tough time finding a replacement.”

“I’ll start the countdown,” Louis says. He mimes setting his watch. “Forty-five days ‘til we’re well shot of this traitorous arsehole.”

Harry lets out that warm, wry laugh of his, and wraps an arm around him. Louis reaches up and ruffles his hair.

“I'll miss you,” he says softly, so no one hears.

“I'll miss you too, Lou.”

 

/

 

Simon is smoking in his office. Louis can tell before he even goes in, because the smell of cigarettes is wafting out into the anteroom. Sadie spritzes her perfume in the air as he walks up.

“Can I talk to him?” Louis says, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Or -- bad time?”

Sadie shrugs. “Hard to tell.” She buzzes the intercom. “I've got Tomlinson out here for you.”

“What's he want?” Simon buzzes back.

“I need to give you a heads up about somethin’,” Louis shouts, so he can be heard through the door.

There's a beat of silence, and then Simon shouts back, “Come in, then.”

Louis comes in. The sky has brightened even more since he's been in the windowless newsroom. It's a robin’s-egg blue, with only a few clouds floating lazily over the Thames. It's beautiful. He wonders if Liam is on his way in right now, listening to the radio, singing along.

Simon is staring at him, his cigarette burning between his fingers. “What on earth are you standing there smiling about?”

“Sorry,” Louis says, taking a seat, and puts his feet up on his desk. Simon knocks them off, like usual.

“So, Harry’s leaving,” he says, to forestall the Liam thing.

“Yes, he is,” Simon grunts. “Incredibly disappointing, but, whatever. I hope he enjoys losing his job when the Guardian folds in three months.”

“Maybe not,” Louis says. “People are reading the paper more now than ever.”

“Yes, but are they paying for it more now than ever?

“I mean, yeah. Subscriptions are up.”

Simon blows smoke at his face. “What did you come in here for?”

Louis wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. “I… er…”

He dodges Simon’s steady, heavy-lidded gaze and looks out the window, watching as the sun glitters on the river.

“Me and Liam are dating,” he says.

Simon sighs. “Of course you are.”

“So, you know. Got to get that all sorted out and make sure it's all… above board, like.”

“Have you slept with him already?” Simon says, like he's asking about the weather.

“No,” Louis lies swiftly.

“Well, good. I don't believe you at all, but if he sues, you're liable, not me.”

“I'm really not his boss,” Louis says. “Literally only on paper. This managerial hierarchy is the stupidest thing I've ever seen.”

“Thank you, I designed it. You know, Paul warned me you two might get together.”

Louis laughs and shakes his head. “Did he.”

“Yeah, he said… what was it? I'll pull up the email, hang on.”

“Really wish you wouldn't.”

“No, I want you to hear this, it was quite funny.” Simon is the only person on the planet who could scroll a mouse loudly. “Here it is. ‘Our EP has been sniffing around your new boy and vice versa... exchanging a lot of lusty glances. I will keep an eye on this. I have had a talk with Louis previously, post-Harry mess, about keeping his hand out of the cookie jar but he may not have taken it seriously. Lol.’”

“When was this?”

“May.”

“What did you say back?” Louis says, picking at his nails.

Simon scrolls some more. “‘Jesus Christ. Keep me posted.’”

“Well, consider yourself posted,” he says mildly.

Simon turns back to him, lacing his fingers together. “So what if this goes south?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.” Louis feels an angry protectiveness spike in him, and opens his mouth before he has a chance to think. “And if you punish Liam for being with me, if you make life hard for him here or bully him with the ratings, I'll walk. I'm sick of losing good people down there.”

Simon’s eyebrows go up. He looks really sort of stunned. “Alright, then.”

“I mean it,” Louis says, his heart going fast in his chest.

“I can tell.”

“Loads of places want me. I stay out of loyalty and ‘cos we make a product I’m proud of. But that could change.”

“Louis, relax.”

“Letting Liam go would be a massive mistake on your end, and you know it.”

Simon lets out a laugh. “Relax. I don’t plan on dismissing your boyfriend without cause.”

“Good,” Louis says.

“Go and get yourself straight with HR. And let Paul know. Now, are we done here? With this highly unprofessional conversation?”

“The fish rots from the head,” he quips, getting up. “When it comes to professionalism.”

Simon chortles at this as he walks away.

 

/

 

When Louis strolls back into the newsroom, Liam is there. He isn't seated, but he's bent over a computer, typing away.

Harry gives Louis a sideways glance as he walks up the aisle between the rows of computers.

“Hey,” he says very softly once he's right next to him. Liam straightens up and makes eye contact. He seems jumpy.

“I talked to Simon.”

“Oh,” Liam says. His face, so open and readable, broadcasts several different emotions in a row, and then falls.

“It's alright,” Louis whispers. “It wasn't bad.”

“Can we go talk in the studio?”

“Sure.”

Liam perches on the edge of the anchor desk once they're in there, while Louis hovers in front of him, his arms folded.

“I just told him we’re together, and I won't take any shit about it,” he says. “And, um, apparently Paul had his suspicions. Before we even got together.”

“Well,” Liam says, and it seems like he's about to touch him but thinks better of it. “Alright… what'd he say?”

“Gave me shit over it, he always gives me shit. But he didn't seem that bothered.” Louis gnaws at his lip. “I dunno.”

“Okay,” Liam says, slowly, and puts his hands on Louis’ waist, pulling him closer.

“It'll be alright,” Louis says, more to himself than Liam.

“Do we have to talk to Paul?”

“Paul and HR.”

“Want to set up a meeting, then?”

Louis smiles at him. “Yeah. You seem very calm, Payno.”

“I'm not, but that's alright,” Liam says, and laughs.

“It's very basic, the HR shit. I got it with Harold. Don't send any dick pics on your work mobile, don't fuck at work… in your case, they'll probably tell you not to put anything on public social media with me, so viewers don't twig…”

“Wait, really?” Liam looks bummed out by this.

“Make a private Insta,” Louis suggests. “Then you can be mushy all you want. I mean, you've seen Harry’s private one, it’s full of black and white photos of Nick’s hands, and shit. No one's found it yet, and he's got a really sort of dedicated fanbase around London.”

“Alright,” Liam says, nodding. “I can do that.”

“Hey… sorry.”

“Sorry what?”

Louis shrugs. “Sorry it won't be normal, between us. Won't be what you're used to.”

“I don't need normal,” Liam says, stroking his waist with one thumb.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Liam, looking besotted, pulls him in closer.

“Bad,” Louis warns. “You're being bad right now.”

“I don't even care.” He reaches down and briefly squeezes Louis’ arse.

Heat rushes to Louis’ cheeks. “We haven't even sat down with HR, yet.”

“Stop me, then,” Liam teases.

“Mate, if you're looking for me to be the impulse control in this relationship, I've got very bad news.”

Liam lets go of him, laughing.


	24. Epilogue

_December 22, 2016_

The annual Christmas party brings them back to the Corinthia, which this time is trussed up in line after line of pine garlands, twinkling lights and soft red wall hangings. Everyone is drunker than usual. It's been a long year.

Louis has four or five glasses of a very well-mixed brandy drink that leaves him absolutely spinning. Around midnight he breaks off from his lad crew and finds Liam perched on a cozy armchair near the fire, talking with a little gathering of people. He’s looking quite handsome, with the sleeves of his tight navy shirt rolled up over his forearms.

Louis goes to him and sits on his lap. Everyone laughs.

“Hi Santa,” Louis says, mussing his hair with both hands. 

Liam smiles, his dark eyes dancing in the firelight. He takes him by the wrists so stop him fucking his nicely moussed hair up. “What d’you want for Christmas? Or your birthday?”

Louis, who is drunk enough not to care about anything and horny for Liam besides, leans in and whispers in his ear, “I want you to fuck me on the kitchen floor,” grazing his ear with his teeth.

Liam squeezes his thigh, hard. “For Christmas, or your birthday?”

Louis grins.

“Share with the class, please,” says Perrie.

“Nothing,” Liam says, reddening.

Andy laughs. Niall and Ellie come over, then, having freshened their drinks.

“We miss something?” Niall says, taking the only available seat.

“Gentlemanly,” Ellie comments.

“Got a lap, don’t I?” Niall pats his thighs, then gestures to Liam and Louis with his beer. “They’re doin’ it.”

“Probably not very professional of us, actually,” Liam says, and leans forward a little like he means to get up, but Louis clings to him like a monkey.

“If you leave me, Leeyum, I’ll go slip and bust me ‘ead on the lino or somethin’,” Louis tells him. “Put that on your conscience.”

“This is a nice hotel, there’s no lino.”

“The marble, then.”

Liam laughs and settles back against the chair, one arm around Louis. Louis snuggles into the solid warmth of him. He could fall asleep right here.

Ellie puts Niall in a gentle headlock; he ducks away protesting and gives up his seat to her. Across the lobby, they hear the sound of a guitar being picked at. Louis glances over and sees Ed has started up playing, while a small audience gathers around him.

Ellie nudges him. “Where’s _your_ guitar, love?”

“Keep it in me house, like a reasonable person,” Niall says under his breath.

“What was that, mate?” Jade says with a chuckle.

“I sneezed.”

Harry and Nick delicately extricate themselves from Ed’s crowd and come over to the fire. Harry looks obnoxiously handsome in leather pants and a patterned suit jacket. Louis has noticed he's been dressing much more colorfully since he became a newspaperman. He seems happier, too.

He squats in front of the hearth, warming his hands, as Nick surveys the scene in front of him.

“Weren’t much for the concert?” Louis says to him.

Nick mouths _oh my God_ and rolls his eyes. Louis laughs heartily.

“Harry, don’t fall in the fire,” Perrie says. She and her boyfriend are peering nervously over the back of the couch at him.

“I’m not!” he protests. “I haven’t had _that_ much to drink...”

“You know what I think is so funny,” Andy says, “that email Paul sent out, about how we should try not to talk about Trump at the Christmas party? Like we’re thinking about anything else.”

“He has the right idea,” Niall says. “I don’t want t’ think about losing Obama.”

“He ain’t _your_ president,” Louis says.

“In me heart he is.”

“You two look cozy,” Nick says, eyeing Louis. Maybe he’s jealous: Harry isn’t much for public displays of affection.

“We are cozy,” Louis says, and kisses Liam on his freshly shaved cheek. Liam nuzzles his neck.

 

/

 

“Which row’d we park in?” Liam says to Louis, as everyone’s getting their coats and things together, preparing to move on to the afterparty at their favorite pub.

“Thirteen.”

“I think it was fourteen.”

“No,” Louis exclaims, shrugging his jacket on. “I know it was thirteen.”

“Think it might’ve been fourteen,” Liam says, as he digs his keys out of his pocket.

“Lad!”

“What?”

“It was thirteen!”

Niall laughs at this as they start out of the hotel, into the milky blue witching hour.

“I feel like it was fourteen, though,” Liam says. “‘Cos I touched the sign, and it said --”

“It was thirteen!” Louis punctuates this by stumbling off the curb and into the road; Liam grabs him by the back of the jacket so he doesn't fall over.

“I'm always right,” Louis says, hot-faced and impudent from the brandy. “Remember last week? When you were like, oh, no, Tommo, I've got milk. I bought milk when we went to Tesco. And I knew you didn't buy milk, you bought protein powder. And then I didn't have milk for me tea.”

“I only didn't have milk ‘cos you drink all my milk!” Liam says good-naturedly.

“If it's thirteen, you'll never hear the end of it,” Perrie says. “Louis, lemme bum a smoke.”

Louis leans against Liam to stay upright as he digs in his pocket. Liam keeps his arm carefully around Louis’ waist.

“After-after party at my place, by the way,” Nick announces to the crowd at large. Jesy whoops.

“Thanks for not drinking so I could,” Louis murmurs to Liam, after he hands Perrie a cigarette and lights one up for himself.

Liam smiles at him, takes it from him and has a drag.

“I can give you your own, love.”

“No, I'm saving you,” Liam says. “If I smoke all your cigarettes for you, you'll have to quit.”

“Or I could just buy more.”

“I'll smoke those too.”

“Then _you'll_ be addicted, and we’ll be in the poorhouse besides.”

Liam shrugs and tips his head up to blow the smoke out. They all start ambling toward the car park at once.

“D’you have alcohol at your place, Nick?” Perrie says.

“Christ, people,” Nick says, “we've just left a bar with an open tab, we're going to a pub, and you want to know if I'm providing you even more alcohol after all that? I mean, of course I am, but you're a bunch of alcoholics.”

Harry laughs. “I’ve been making this thing, lately, with coconut milk and Malibu --”

“Oh, he's on a coconut kick, yeah,” Nick says.

“It's got lots of amino acids.”

“Wish you'd be on a pineapple kick, instead.” Nick winks, and Harry elbows him.

“Are we going to the after-after party?” Ellie says to Niall.

“Yeah, why not?”

“You’re dayside tomorrow.”

“Eh, fuck it, it’s the holidays.”

“Who can I ride with,” Olly calls, stopping by a built-up bank of filthy snow to tie his shoe. “I sincerely can't spend any more on Ubers this month.”

Liam starts to offer, but Louis puts his hand over his mouth.

“Don't, I want to talk to you in the car.”

Liam removes his hand. “Am I in trouble?” he says lightly.

“No, the opposite.”

“Oh yeah?”

Louis smiles tipsily at him. The streetlights are all twinkling and smeary behind him. He can hear bells somewhere down the road.

Leigh Anne and her husband, both sober, adopt Olly as their own and haul his drunken arse into their CR-V. Louis, eagle-eyed as ever despite the alcohol, spots Liam’s car in row thirteen and turns around, slapping him on the chest and shouting, “Ha!” very loudly.

“Alright, alright,” Liam demurs.

“You fuckin’ doubted me! When you _know_ I'm always right!”

“You're a menace on society, you know that? Dennis the Menace.”

“I warned you,” Perrie calls over her shoulder as she walks away with Alex.

“Admit I was right,” Louis tells him.

Instead of doing that, Liam presses him up against the car and snogs him, hard, slipping him some tongue. Louis wraps his arms around his neck, stroking his hair.

“Get a room,” Nick yells at them as he goes by.

Louis hears Ellie say to Niall, “How come you never kiss _me_ like that in public?” to which Niall replies, “Oh cheers, Liam!”

Liam pulls back from Louis, flush-lipped and smiling. “Don't blame me!”

Niall turns back and jokingly gives them the finger. Louis gives it back.

“You're just kissing me to shut me up,” he says to Liam.

“Someone's got to do it,” Liam says, winking.

Louis gapes at him as he’s guided to the passenger side door and ushered in. “Prick.”

Liam does up his seatbelt and gives him a quick peck on the lips. “Uh-huh,” he says.

“Admit I was right,” Louis says, as they pull onto the main road.

“You were right. And about the milk, too.”

“Perfect,” Louis says, settling against the seat.

The milk wouldn't have been a problem, except he spends nearly every night at Liam’s, now. He’s taken to bringing Godfrey with him in his little cat crate. Sometimes he even leaves him there for a few days -- months ago Liam had bought a litter box, and then food bowls, and then toys and catnip.

He likes Liam’s flat. They spend long hours together in the rooftop garden, lying in the grass and looking up at the smoggy London sky, talking. Liam keeps opening his home more and more to him; he bought a new shower curtain because of one off-hand comment Louis made about mold, and he went out and bought a second nightstand so Louis would have a place on his side of the bed to keep his phone charger and things.

They built the nightstand together, and got very heated in their back and forth about which way the strange screw-like doohickey was supposed to go in. Then they'd made up and had to take an hour out to lazily make love in the late afternoon sun.

Louis’ lease finishes at the end of January, and he hasn't even been looking. He thinks they both know he's going to end up moving in, they just haven't said it out loud yet.

He waits until they're going down the highway before he says what he wants to say. He has his seat leaned far back enough that he can't even see the road, only the streetlights sweeping across the windscreen and the other cars rushing by. The heat is blasting, and his brain is humming comfortably from the alcohol.

“Payno,” he says, before he has a chance to get scared.

“What's up?”

Louis doesn't respond, and Liam turns the radio down.

“I want to tell you something,” he says, and looks over at him in the dark. Liam's softly outlined by the light from the city, his brows furrowed slightly as he concentrates on driving.

“Sure, go ahead.” He sounds sort of nervous.

A smile rises immediately to Louis’ lips, like bubbles in a drink. His heart feels impossibly overfull.

“I love you,” he says softly. “I'm in love with you.”

“Oh! Oh, shit,” Liam says, his gaze momentarily dragged from the road. His entire face is lit up. "Really? You really are?"

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs, and reaches up to stroke his cheek.

To his surprise, Liam takes the next exit, which leads them off onto a random wooded road. He pulls off onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under his tires, and parks the car.

“C’mere,” he says to Louis, smiling, moving his seat back to accommodate him. Louis climbs onto his lap again. Liam strokes his cheek and gazes up at him.

“You gonna say anything, mate?” Louis teases, trying to mask his anxiety.

“Oh, Louis, 'course I'm in love with you, I'm so in love with you..." Liam is smiling wide, gazing at him with steady devotion. "I just wanted to look you in the face when I said that, is all.”

His heart gets fluttery. “Yeah?”

“C'mon, of course yeah." His dark eyes flick over Louis’ face. “And I didn't mean to make you go first, I was just scared it was too soon --"

Louis leans forward and kisses him, bracing his hand against the door. Liam sucks at his bottom lip.

“That's alright, love,” Louis murmurs, kissing over his jaw and down his neck. 

They pull back and gaze at each other, like they can't fill their eyes full of each other's faces enough.

“I sort of want to skip the after party,” Louis says, “go home and have sex.”

“Ohh,” Liam groans, rubbing at Louis’ thigh. “We should put in an appearance, maybe,” he adds reluctantly.

“Fifteen minutes,” Louis says. “Twenty max.”

“Deal.”

They climb off each other, fixing their hair.

“We’re moving in together, right?” Louis says, adjusting his cock in his trousers. “When my lease ends? Just making sure.”

“Yeah, I hadn't assumed otherwise,” Liam says, laughing as he starts the car back up.

Louis smiles to himself as they get back onto the road.

 

/

 

Liam fucks him on the kitchen floor, like he'd asked for. Louis holds Liam’s head fast to the crook of his neck, moaning softly as he rocks into him. It's very cold, so Liam brought a couple blankets, and the heat of their bodies gets trapped deliciously between them. The dishwasher hums in the background. Louis feels held, kept, safe.

“Hey,” he whispers after a while, looking out the kitchen window over Liam’s shoulder. “It's snowing.”

“Yeah?” Liam murmurs to him, kissing his cheek.

“It is, it's snowing.”

Liam twists his hips in a way that feels really good, and he inhales deeply.

“Liam,” he sighs.

They snog. Liam fucks him a little harder, getting into a steady rhythm.

Louis lets out another moan as pleasure curls in his pelvis, coiled tightly. Liam wraps his hand around his cock and starts leisurely jerking him off.

“I love you,” Liam whispers.

“God, God.” Louis grabs hard at Liam's arse.

The blanket slips off them some, and Louis tugs it back up with his free hand.

“Can we get the boys together for football tomorrow, but have a snowball fight instead?” Liam sounds strained; he must be close to coming.

“Perfect,” Louis says, running his fingers through Liam's hair. His scalp is dewy with sweat from the exertion and the blankets.

Louis is sometimes grossed out by how much he relishes the smell of Liam’s sweat, which when he first met him he'd found as unpleasant as any other random man's. Now he always smells good -- like home, like intimacy, something sacrosanct in it. His man.

In August, Paul had sent Liam off to Wales to do some extended coverage, but apologetically kept Louis back in the studio, so they exchanged a series of emails that started off sweet and romantic, rapidly devolved into lurid obscenity and were often followed up by phone sex.

During one of their calls, Louis had found a sweat-wicking workout tee of Liam’s and clutched it to his face while he jerked off and Liam (having already come) mumbled sleepily in his ear about how much he wanted to come home and lick his arse.

After Louis came, though, it changed -- they started whispering sweet nothings to each other instead. Liam professed that he wanted to kiss all over each of Louis’ tattoos. Louis said he just wanted to see Liam’s face. And then they'd gone quiet, listening to each other breathe, completely comfortable in the silence.

Louis fell asleep that night holding the shirt. He hadn't washed his sheets at all while Liam was gone, because the bed smelled like him, and he can't get to sleep now if he can't feel his presence somehow.

When they've both come, they gather the blankets around them and go upstairs. Louis turns a space heater on while Liam putters around in the loo.

He perches on the windowsill, watching the flakes fall in the street outside. It looks like a postcard, or a stamp.

“You left the toothpaste out again,” Liam calls to him.

“What's the point of having it in a drawer if you're just going to keep taking it out twice a day to use it?”

“Well, why have drawers at all, then? Let’s just leave our silverware and clothes on the floor, ‘cos we use them so much.”

Louis laughs. “Fuck your drawers.”

“Yeah, _fuck_ my drawers, dude, fuck ‘em,” Liam says as he comes back into the bedroom, but he's smiling.

“Wait, how does it end, that Vine?” Louis is rolled forcibly onto his side as Liam tugs the covers out from under him so he can make up the bed.

“Fuck,” Liam says, squinting. “I forget. Oh, no, he goes, like, 'I’m so sorry for even asking’.”

“I still can't believe they're killing Vine.”

“Biggest tragedy of the year. Worse than Brexit.”

Louis laughs. “I love you, too,” he says. “Forgot to say, earlier.”

Liam smiles more and fluffs up a pillow. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Louis says, louder.

“Love you!” Liam shouts.

“LOVE YOU,” Louis bellows at the top of his lungs.

“Please, I do have neighbors!”

“I _love_ him,” Louis sings, flopping onto the freshly made bed and grinning up at Liam. “I'm in _love_ with your neighbor, I'm absolutely stupid about him. When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie…”

“Bedtime, you drunk,” Liam says with a laugh, and gets into bed with him, wrapping Louis up in his arms and spooning him.

“Can I tell everyone at work you're in love with me?”

“You can tell Niall.”

“Not Pez?”

“Niall and Pez.”

“Okay. And you can tell Andy you're in love with me, if you like.”

“Andy knows I'm in love with you.”

Louis loves how Liam’s voice sounds when he says this. He loves the idea of Liam talking to other people about him; he loves that when he met Liam’s family, they all said, “We've heard so much about you,” he loves that Ruth said, “Oh, you're the one that makes him laugh so much.”

“‘Scuse me,” he says half-heartedly. “How come he got to know before I did?”

Liam kisses him on the back of the neck.

“We have to be up tomorrow,” he murmurs. His breath is pleasantly warm. Louis shifts on the bed; he can still sort of feel where Liam was inside him. “For the snowball fight.”

“Is that you shutting me up?”

“Well, it is three in the morning,” Liam says placidly.

“That’s fair,” Louis says.

His eyelids are already getting heavy. He lets himself relax in the shelter of Liam’s arms, listening to the cars outside go _whoosh whoosh_ in the snow.


End file.
